The Neighbor Read online

  After thirty minutes I slither out from under the bed and into the bathroom. My bladder finally lets go and it’s a welcome relief. I sit on that toilet for what seems like a long time, until I feel empty inside. I’m filled with a tremendous guilt for sneaking in here and spying on my neighbor. I wait another ten minutes before deciding to leave. I spray the room with freshener until it smells like a tropical rain forest.

  Once home, I shower for over an hour, trying to erase the memory of Clarissa grabbing for that dildo. I’m still trembling when I emerge, my normally pale skin red and shriveled. Never in my life have I invaded a person’s privacy in such a devious and criminal way. Yet part of me still trembles with excitement from this newfound discovery. What I have done is sick and a complete invasion of her privacy, yet it doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. I’m so pathetically lonely that I’ll do just about anything to be liked and accepted. And what better way to do this than to become friends with Clarissa. She could open a whole new world for me, and if it requires a little underhanded behavior to accomplish this, then so be it.

  CLAY

  Tuesday, October 13, 10:13 a.m.

  I’D BEEN WORKING LONG DAYS AND NIGHTS AT THE BREWERY WHEN MY relationship with Mycah first began. Leah and the kids were still in Seattle at the time, preparing for the big move. Time and circumstance converged to create the perfect storm for my cheating ways.

  The first few months at the brewery were the most difficult. I ran into some unexpected problems with asbestos-wrapped pipes and faulty drainage. We gutted the inside, and with the help of a local asbestos crew, we worked night and day to put it back together. A local carpenter rebuilt the oak bar in the tasting room using salvaged wood, and he framed the walls and ceiling. After the new wiring, plumbing, and French drains had been installed, I began to assemble the stainless steel kettles and brewing equipment.

  I was sitting against the exterior of the building, having my first coffee of the day, when I saw this angelic-looking thing walking in my direction.

  She stopped and smiled at me as I puffed on a cigarette (I’d started smoking again). Unable to take my eyes off her, I gladly returned the attention. Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time a beautiful girl smiled at me like that. For a brief moment I felt desirable again.

  “Hey, you,” she said.

  “Hey.”

  “Mind if I bum a smoke?”

  “These things are bad for you, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Oh, I’ve noticed. But there’s a lot worse habits one can have than smoking.”

  I pulled one out, lit it with the end of mine, and passed it to her.

  “I never should have started when I was in high school,” she said.

  “I recently fell off the wagon.”

  “Expensive too.”

  “And you can forget about your breath.”

  “Not the best habit to have when you want to kiss someone.”

  I laughed at her brashness. “Anyone in particular?”

  “Maybe.” She walked over and stuck her head inside the garage door. “What’s it going to be?”

  “A brewery.”

  “For real?”

  “One thing I never lie about and that’s beer.”

  “I know people who lie about more important things.”

  “What’s more important than beer?” I laughed. “Are you a connoisseur?”

  “Who doesn’t like a cold one every now and then?”

  “Most ladies prefer wine or fruity cocktails.”

  “Who said I was a lady?”

  “My sincerest apologies.”

  “No worries,” she said, waving her hand. “So tell me, is it hard to make?”

  “Beer making’s a very simple process, yet extremely complex at the same time, if that answers your question. Would you like a tour?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  “You’ll have to bear with me; it’s still a work in progress.”

  “Isn’t everything in life a work in progress?” she said, holding out her hand. “Mycah Jones.”

  “Clay Daniels, president and CEO of Rustic Barn Brewery.” I grabbed her hand in my own and felt a distinct thrill.

  I moved aside to let her enter and showed her around. There wasn’t much to see, as I hadn’t finished installing the kettles and fermenters. The sophisticated electric panel used to control the brewing system sat idle on a workbench. The tour was relatively quick. I didn’t want to bore her with the mundane details of brewing, but she seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. We made our way into the unfinished tasting room, where I’d installed the refrigeration system. We pulled two stools up to the oak bar. A few nights earlier I’d kegged one of my experimental brews and hooked it up to the tap. Moving behind the bar, I poured her a beer, making sure to top it off with a nice head. I passed one glass to her and then poured one for myself.

  “It smells yeasty,” she said, nose in her glass. “Like fresh bread.”

  “That’s the noble hops you’re smelling.” I lifted my glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” She raised a toast and drank.

  “What do you think?”

  “Wow. It’s so clean and crisp.” She pressed her lips together in a way I found unbelievably sexy. “Shouldn’t you have asked to see my ID first?”

  “I was always taught never to ask a woman’s age.”

  “You were taught well.” She took another sip. “I’m not sure what else I’m tasting here, but it’s complex.”

  “There’s a bit of a grassy hop flavor with a slight bitterness. Also a touch of pils malt near the finish.”

  “Your palate’s obviously more refined than mine.”

  “Brewing beer’s been my passion for quite some time now.” I lifted my glass and studied the amber liquid.

  “Dude, this beer is amazing.” She smiled at me with the most beautiful green eyes, and I had to admit it felt awesome to be the object of this girl’s attention.

  “So what do you do?”

  “I’m a student at Chadwick College, majoring in social justice.”

  “What does that qualify you to do?”

  “I hope to be a civil rights lawyer someday.”

  “Very admirable, although you’ll not have much time for beer while in law school.”

  “It’s all about making time for the things we most desire in life.”

  “So true.”

  “Damn straight, beer man.” She drained the remainder of her beer. Once it was empty, she hopped off her stool and headed toward the exit. “I’ll see you around.”

  “You know where to find me.”

  “Clay Daniels, brewer and patriot.” She hitched her bag over her shoulder and disappeared from sight.

  I walked over to the door and watched as she moseyed down the sidewalk, her white summer dress rippling in the wind. I felt intensely happy after the brief encounter. She’d lit something inside me that I thought had long been extinguished. It came as a revelation that I could feel so damn good about myself. What had I been missing all those years?

  Yes, I missed my family in the most abstract sense. I loved Leah, but I also knew that once we were back together, I’d quickly become irritable and need my space. Leah, with all her quirks and odd behaviors, could wear a man down. She was high maintenance. Needy. Obsessed about the craziest of things. She often drove me crazy about the most inconsequential matters.

  Maybe it’s my imagination, but it seems as if my children resent me for having moved them from the only home they ever knew. Not so much Zadie, but certainly Zack. He’s constantly rebuffing my affection. I thought he’d eventually come around, but so far he hasn’t. He refuses to hug or kiss me. In fact, he rarely even talks to me unless I take him aside and force the issue. Then he sits quietly, staring past me until I leave him alone. Thankfully, Zadie still loves me, showering me with hugs and kisses whenever I come home.

  I sit in my abandoned brewery, regretting that fateful day I met M
ycah Jones. A fresh beer sits on the concrete floor beneath my feet. I’m exhausted from sanitizing fermenting tanks and loading sacks of grain.

  Any day now, I expect the police to walk in here and start questioning me about my connection to Mycah. They’ll ask me about her disappearance and how well I knew her. But I can’t tell them anything. I need to keep that part of my life secret if I want my family to remain intact. Otherwise, this secret will spread like cancer and destroy us. And if that happens, my life will be over.

  LEAH

  Tuesday, October 13, 11:08 p.m.

  CLAY COMES HOME QUITE LATE AS I SIT IN THE LIVING ROOM, READING my novel. I love Jane Smiley but can’t quite get into this one. Maybe it’s my frame of mind. Or maybe the book really is a stinker. Every author has one. Oftentimes I feel like I’m the main character in a bad novel.

  Clay’s tired and mindless of my presence, stumbling around in the dark and acting weird. He gives me a perfunctory kiss on the top of my head and then grabs a beer out of the fridge. By the way he moves, I can tell he’s been drinking again. He’s getting worse. I think the pressure of running a business is starting to weigh on him.

  He grunts something unintelligible and I badly want to tell him what happened over at the Gaineses’ house today. But I know better. Mr. Shady wakes up and stretches for a few seconds before strolling over to greet his master.

  “How was your day?” he asks.

  “Uneventful. Went for a run. Zack and Zadie had a good day at school. Zack, as usual, went up to his room and stayed there until dinner.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with him?”

  “It might take some time for him to get adjusted to his new home.”

  “Damn kid.” He gulps his beer and scratches Mr. Shady along his backside. “I don’t think Zack loves me.”

  “Of course he loves you. He’s just going through a difficult phase now.”

  “Between you and me, I think he’s being a stubborn little asshole.”

  “Shhh. He might hear you.”

  “I don’t really care if he hears me.”

  “You’re drunk, Clay.”

  “I’m tired and cranky.”

  I mark the page in my book and place it on the coffee table. “Have you heard anything more about the missing girl?”

  “Jesus, Leah, do we have to talk about that right now? It’s so goddamn morbid.”

  “That’s the problem, Clay; you don’t talk to me about anything except beer, which I hate talking about.”

  “Isn’t it enough that I went to that stupid vigil last night and was made to feel like a white supremacist?”

  “I thought it was a beautiful ceremony.”

  “Please. That entire event was merely an excuse to make a political statement. They barely mentioned the poor girl’s name.”

  “I moved all this way for you, Clay. Why can’t you at least play along so I can fit in here?”

  He seems taken aback by my words, but instead of standing to hug me, he puts his beer down and scratches Mr. Shady’s butt.

  I turn and walk upstairs to the bedroom. The hell with him. He’s drunk and acting selfish. I have no intention of sleeping in the same bed with him tonight. I grab a blanket out of the closet, grab his pillows, and toss them down the stairwell. He can stay down there all night and get as drunk as he likes for all I care.

  Despite what happened this morning, I feel I made some progress in my grand plan to befriend Clarissa. Tomorrow, I’ll try again. There has to be more to this Mycah Jones story than what the police are telling us.

  And I plan to find out.

  LEAH

  Wednesday, October 14, 7:37 a.m.

  I SLEPT TERRIBLY, TOSSING AND TURNING ALL NIGHT, WITHOUT CLAY by my side. Mr. Shady greets me at the base of the stairs this morning, spinning in anxious desperation while waiting for his walk. But I don’t feel like walking him. I open the sliding door leading to the patio and watch as he bolts out to the backyard and does his thing.

  The morning is overcast and cold. A brisk wind blows down from the north. I cinch up my robe as Mr. Shady circles the yard in search of a good place to poo. He wanders aimlessly over to the Gaineses’ backyard and plops his butt down over their manicured lawn and lets go. Clarissa will be furious when she sees it and will know that it was our dog that pooped there. I’m underdressed and too tired to go out in my bare feet to scoop it up. I remind myself to pick it up later after she leaves for work.

  Mr. Shady scoots back inside the sliding door, and I chastise him loudly, squeezing his wet snout in my hand.

  “Bad dog, Mr. Shady. You’re not supposed to poo in our neighbors’ yard.” I tap his moist nose as he stares up at me. “I’m going to send you to the doggy pound if you keep it up. Do you know what they do to bad doggies at the pound?”

  Mr. Shady stares up at me with a terrified expression.

  I let go of him and he scampers into another room, far away from me.

  Upon turning, I see Zack and Zadie staring at me from the kitchen table. Zadie has a finger in her mouth and is frowning.

  “You’re not really going to send Mr. Shady to the dog pound, are you, Momma?”

  “Of course not, honey. Momma was just mad at him.”

  “They’ll put him to sleep,” Zack says.

  “Shut up, Zack,” Zadie says, punching her brother in the arm.

  “Ow! She hit me,” Zack complains.

  “Keep your hands to yourself, Zadie.”

  “Zack was being mean to Mr. Shady.”

  “It’s the truth,” Zack says. “That’s what they do to dogs at the pound.”

  “But what if Mr. Shady heard you?” Zadie says.

  “Dogs don’t understand us,” Zack says spitefully.

  “Oh yes they do,” says Zadie. “Isn’t that right, Momma?”

  “Sometimes they do,” I say. “Of course I would never send Mr. Shady to the pound.”

  “Zack could have hurt Mr. Shady’s feelings,” Zadie replies.

  “It’s stupid to punish a dog for going to the bathroom,” Zack says. “Dogs act on instinct.”

  I laugh. “Since when have you become an expert on dog behavior?”

  “I watched this show on dogs and they said that the punishment must be given the moment the act occurs or else it can seem random and cruel.”

  “Mr. Shady knows that pooping in our neighbors’ yard is wrong.”

  “Pooping,” says Zadie, laughing.

  “Dogs are incapable of bad behavior,” Zack continues. “They act according to instinct and pack behavior.”

  “For God’s sake, Zack, are you eleven or thirty-seven?”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “I’m sorry, hon, I’m just tired,” I say, walking over and wrapping my arms around him. He tenses up as I squeeze him to my chest. “I love you.”

  “Do they put unwanted kids to sleep too, Mommy?” Zadie asks.

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Zack says.

  “No, dear, they don’t,” I say.

  “Good. I was beginning to get worried,” Zadie says.

  What did Zadie mean by that? Is she feeling unloved? Unwanted? I’ve done my best to raise these two and protect them from the worst the world has to offer. When they were little and growing up in Seattle, they were always smiling, happy children. But now they’re growing up and nearing their teen years, experiencing and feeling strange things that come with this age. I know I’m a good mother. And Clay, despite his drinking, loves his monsters to death. I bet it has something to do with moving across the country and settling in a foreign place. Hopefully, it’s temporary and they’ll return to their happy selves. I’ll redouble my efforts in giving them all the attention they need. My goal is to return to those happy days when they were young and full of joy and so adorably cute.

  I pour cereal into their bowls. Zack eats his without milk. It’s reassuring to know that my child prodigy tests off the charts. His pediatrician claims that he manifests be
haviors symptomatic of Asperger’s, although it’s not a full-blown case. I do love him, even if that love is sometimes skewed in the abstract.

  Unrequited love pains me, especially from my own son. It’s made worse by the fact that Zadie is so unusually loving and outgoing. The contrast in the twins is alarming. I try so hard to be sympathetic to his needs and to what he’s going through. It’s possible he’s experiencing social anxiety. The move to Maine has been difficult for all of us, but especially for him, a boy used to routine and habit.

  Afterward, they walk down to the bus stop by themselves. I’m too tired to take them. Truthfully, I’m relieved now that they’re gone. I have precious little time to myself. In a few hours I’ll be lonely again. I’m finding I don’t want to be around the twins as much. For some odd reason they depress me. They wear me out and leave me exhausted. They often make me feel as if I’m a terrible mother. Worse, they remind me of my twin sister, Annie, whom I miss so much.

  It’s funny to think that we were identical twins because we looked nothing like each other. The reason for this was Annie’s disability. It affected her muscles and bone structure, causing her limbs to become useless, twisted appendages. Her face was misshapen and her mouth forever contorted to one side of her face. Because of this she couldn’t speak, the words unable to form over her spastic tongue. Despite these handicaps, we shared a bond that no one could break. She could read my mind just as readily as I could read hers. It was the one sure thing about us being identical twins, and we relished our unspoken pact.

  I stare out the window, waiting for Clarissa and the kids to drive away. I don’t care anymore about the morality of sneaking into her home and invading her privacy. I feel so lonely that I’ll do virtually anything to be accepted. I wish Clay would shower me with more attention. Maybe treat me like one of his beers.

  Ten minutes pass before Clarissa walks out the door, a child clasped in each hand. Wedged under her armpit is a leather briefcase. For some reason she looks different this morning, as if she threw her outfit together at the last minute. Yet she looks stunning. Her face is scrunched tight, and she looks pissed off about something. This is a side of her I’ve not yet seen. But after finding her dildo yesterday, it thrills me to know that she has a naughty side. That she uses a white dildo to get herself off. The secret knowledge of this puts me in a very advantageous position.