The House Next Door Page 2

  He shrugs and runs up the steps just as the bell rings. The heavy metal door slams behind him.

  As I drive off, though, I realize the kid’s got a point. Darcy left them a note, with her phone number on it.

  So: why me?

  Chapter 5

  When I go back home to pick up Ned’s tie, the dust balls meet me at the door. I know they’ve missed me, because they follow me from room to room. To kill time, I vacuum the whole house. Then I write a few checks. Then I empty the dishwasher.

  I can put it off no longer. I’ve got to deal with Harry.

  Harry, the H of H & M Cleaners, is standing behind the counter as I walk through the door. As always, he’s frowning. He is a short, stubby man with deep lines in his face from intense scowling. Harry wears granny glasses that are always speckled with dirt.

  “Hello,” I say, pulling the butter-stained tie out of my bag.

  “You’ll have it Tuesday,” he answers, curling the tie around his hand and dropping it on the counter. That’s Harry’s way of saying Hello. Nice to see you again. How’s the family? Harry and my son Joey must be enrolled in the same charm school.

  Harry punches a few numbers into his computer, prints a receipt, and peels it in half. I get the pink half.

  “Can I have it tomorrow?”

  “You want it tomorrow, you should have brought it in yesterday.”

  “But it only got stained today.”

  Harry shrugs. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to have it tomorrow. Look,” I say. Then I point to a huge faded sign that has been hanging there since 1967. “It says IN BY TEN, OUT BY THREE.”

  “Look yourself,” he says. “It’s ten fifteen.”

  “But today’s only Thursday. What if I brought it in tomorrow before ten? Would I have it tomorrow by three?”

  Harry shrugs. “I can’t promise anything. Tomorrow is the weekend.”

  I get back in the car and slam the door. I’m annoyed at Harry, but just as annoyed at Ned, who insists I go to H & M Cleaners. I don’t understand a lot of things Ned insists on. Mouthwashes that burn. Sitting in the first row of a movie theater. Then again, when we were dating and I accidentally got pregnant with Joey, another guy might’ve walked. But Ned insisted on marrying me. You’ve got to love a guy like that.

  And I do. Most of the time.

  Once Joey was born, Ned insisted we move to the suburbs. Overnight, I kissed my half-assed acting career good-bye. Okay. So my life isn’t quite Shangri-la. But I can’t complain (although I do, all the time, in couples therapy). I have a lot of laughs with the kids. Ned is a pretty good father. Life could be a lot worse.

  And when I read all these stories about husbands who cheat and lie and put their family in harm’s way—I know Ned would never do anything like that.

  Chapter 6

  “Welcome to Best Buy, sir,” the young salesman in the red T-shirt says, smiling as he greets the customer at the door. “Can I help you find something?”

  “No thanks,” Vince Kelso tells him, waving him off with his hand. He heads deeper into the store, toward the cell phone aisle.

  Soon another salesman approaches—this one bald, with a bad case of acne.

  “Just looking,” Vince tells him. Vince wanders around until he sees exactly what he’s looking for: a young salesgirl. She has long red hair and is standing by a cash register.

  “I wonder if you could help me,” he asks her.

  “Sure, sir,” she says. As he expected, she is sweet and perky—perhaps a trainee, determined to make a good impression.

  “So many cell phones. What’s an old guy like me to do?” he says. He shrugs helplessly and looks at the plastic name tag on the young girl’s shirt. “Amber,” he adds.

  Amber looks him over. He doesn’t seem that old—way younger than her father. She thinks he was probably cute as a teenager.

  She gestures to the aisle behind them and begins the sales pitch they taught her in orientation. “Okay. So, a lot depends on how you’re going to use it. So, like, if you surf the internet, or do a lot of texting…”

  “Now, honey,” he says, looking right into her eyes, leaning in so he’s a lot closer to her. “Do I look like a guy who texts a lot?”

  She blushes a little. It’s sweet.

  “No, sir—all I meant was…”

  “Actually, I’m looking for one of those prepaid ones.”

  Her face lights up. “Oh. Like a disposable? Sure. Those are at the end, over there. They’re pretty popular. The contract fees are much less, and you can…”

  But he’s already shaking his head.

  “I’m a pretty simple guy, Amber. Don’t even need a contract. I just want something I can use and then toss.”

  “Oh!” Amber says. “So, like, a burner. Here’s the one most people go with.” She reaches for a black phone in a blister pack, hanging on a hook.

  “I’ll tell you how good a saleswoman you are,” he says. “I’m gonna take six of ’em.” He pulls five more off the rack.

  “Awesome,” she says, all smiles. It’s her biggest sale of the day. Maybe even her biggest sale ever. Vince turns one over, to see the price. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wallet. He peels off four fifty-dollar bills.

  “I knew I could count on you, Amber,” he says. “Why, I bet, if I come back here in ten years, you’re gonna be running the place. Am I right?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she says. She looks away shyly.

  “One last thing,” he says as he pockets the change. “I don’t know this brand. Where do I find the phone number?”

  “It’s right inside,” Amber says, cracking open one of the blister cases with the cash register key. “Let me show you.” She pulls out an instruction manual. “Oh, look—you got a good one. 914-809-1414.”

  “914-809-1414. I like that,” Vince says. “Easy to remember. Well, you take care now,” he adds. “And remember what I said. Don’t let me down.”

  “No, sir,” she replies, smiling. “Have a nice day.”

  He winks, puts the phones and the instruction manual in his briefcase, and leaves without taking the receipt.

  Chapter 7

  The time: 2:30 p.m., outside Copain Woods School. And it’s starting. A snake pit of road rage as the SUVs line up, each driven by an impatient mom or dad, jockeying for position. I like to think of myself as an A-team player at this.

  The minutes pass. Suddenly it’s three o’clock. A bell rings. Doors open. Out spills a gaggle of students, grades one through eight. They scatter in all directions in search of a familiar car. Horns honk. Drivers shout names. Caroline spots me quickly and waves. Ben appears behind her. I pull closer to the curb and they both jump in.

  “Where’s Vinny?” I ask. My eyes search the crowd. Down at the end is a face I’ve never seen before. A boy leaning against the building. The kid wears a reddish-brown shirt the same color as the bricks.

  “That’s him,” Ben says, pointing. Then he scoots down in his seat so none of the other middle school kids can see him. I pull closer to Vincent Kelso Junior and roll down the window.

  “You must be Vinny,” I say. “I’m Mrs. Sherman. Hop in.”

  Vinny walks slowly. Behind me, the honking grows louder.

  “A little faster,” I say sweetly. He has some trouble opening the door. A nice kid, I think. But not too swift.

  “Perhaps you two can help?” I say. Ben, still crouched down out of sight, groans. He opens the door handle with his foot. Vinny slides in and fastens his seat belt.

  I begin to pull out of the Circle of Doom. Once we’re safely away from the school, Ben sits up straight.

  “So how do you like Copain Woods?” I ask Vinny.

  “It’s okay, I guess,” he says. I turn around and look at him. He’s a little guy, a few inches smaller than Ben. He has thick brown hair and a nose the size of a small turnip. Cute kid.

  “What’s your favorite subject?” I ask.

  “T
hey’re all okay.” He shrugs and looks out the window.

  “But I bet you really like soccer.”

  “I kind of did. In my old school.”

  “And where was that?” I ask. Suddenly, he looks frightened.

  “I don’t know. Pretty far from here.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  We pull up in front of the high school to pick up Joey. He’s standing at the curb, checking something on his cell phone. He looks up and gives me his usual warm greeting.

  “Did you bring my racquet?”

  “It’s in the back,” I say.

  “Where are my ballet shoes?” asks Caroline.

  “On the floor in front with me. Next to the backup sneakers, water, snacks, and oboe. Am I missing anything?”

  “Yeah,” Ben says. “Mr. Wellman says I have to bring a pencil.”

  “Don’t you have one? I bought you a few hundred before school started.”

  “All the erasers are chewed,” he says with a shrug.

  “He can have one of mine,” says Caroline. She opens her backpack. Her pencils, like everything else about her, are perfect: impeccably sharpened and lined up like wooden soldiers in her Fancy Nancy pencil case.

  “I don’t want yours. Yours have cooties.”

  She gives him a dirty look. All three boys begin laughing as I gun the car around and head for the tennis court.

  I pull into the Roger Raymond Recreation Center, a low, white cement building surrounded by willow trees. Joey jumps out and gets his racquet from the back.

  “Next stop, soccer field.”

  Caroline makes a face. “But, Mom…”

  “You can be a little late to ballet,” I say. “Vinny needs to get there on time.”

  She stews quietly as I turn the car around and head back.

  We drop Vinny at the playing field. The minute he’s out of the car, Ben leans forward and grabs my seat.

  “Why are you so nice to him?”

  “His father is paying me a lot of money.”

  “Really?” he asks.

  “No. Jeez. To think I gave up a promising career in theater for a chance to mold young minds, and this is how they turn out. Don’t you remember the story of the Good Samaritan?”

  “I thought that was just for muggings.”

  “You’re hopeless. It’s for anybody who’s in trouble, who needs a helping hand. And that little boy…”

  “He’s in trouble?” Caroline asks.

  “Well, I’m not sure. But…something’s not right.”

  “Who cares,” Ben says. He crosses his arms and sulks silently as I make my way through the afternoon to ballet and to oboe. After the drop-offs, I sit in my car and check my emails ($350K in life insurance for as little as $153 a month!…Storm windows, 50% off!…5 Things You Should Watch Before They Expire From Netflix). Then I head back to tennis, back to ballet, back to oboe, and back to soccer.

  Vinny is waiting out in front, covered in mud from the knees down. He’s got a big smile on his face.

  “We won!” he yells. He jumps into the car and smears mud all over my upholstery. “Seven–zip.”

  And I shift into drive for the final leg of my Thursday journey.

  We’re going to Vinny’s house.

  Chapter 8

  Thirty-seven Maple Lane. The house next door. A small gray house with a bay window.

  Vinny jumps out with a quick wave and a polite “thank you.” I park in my driveway and decide I’ll walk over and introduce myself.

  Two small ironstone flowerpots flank the front door. Each one holds a miniature pine tree that’s turning brown. As I get close, I realize everything about the house is turning brown. Several gray clapboards are rotting on the corners. I am about to ring the bell when the door opens.

  Vincent Kelso Senior is standing in front of me, smiling. He is wearing jeans, a light brown cashmere sweater the same color as his hair, and tasseled loafers.

  He’s in his mid- to late forties. Great smile. Great teeth.

  “Laura,” he says. He takes my hand and holds it briefly between both of his. His whole face relaxes. Not a bad-looking face, I think. And for a split second, I sense that he might be thinking the very same thing about me.

  He keeps his sky-blue eyes locked on mine, except for one brief moment when they dart to the area where he thinks my breasts might be. But of course, they are so hidden under layers of sweatshirts and turtlenecks, he isn’t even close.

  “Thanks for doing this,” he says. “I owe you, big-time.”

  “Glad I could help. You’ve got enough on your mind,” I say. He looks confused.

  “Your wife…?” I add.

  “Oh, right,” he says. “That sure made moving more complicated. Not knowing the town at all. Or where things are.”

  “I could put together a list for you,” I say. “Local merchants. Plumbers. That sort of thing.” The sooner the better, I think, as I let my eyes wander to the hallway behind him. Paint is peeling from the walls, and there is a huge brown water spot creeping across the ceiling.

  “Oh, I couldn’t ask you to go to that trouble.”

  “No trouble, really. It would give me something to do.”

  “Ah. A little bored out here, are we?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I say.

  “Let me guess,” he says. “Like the comedian says: You feel like the whole world is a tuxedo. And you’re a pair of brown shoes.”

  I laugh. “Exactly.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind doing that list…I sure would appreciate it. Any local people I can trust. Or people to avoid.”

  “Harry at H & M Cleaners, for one,” I say. “He’s sort of rude and abrasive. I just had a bit of a run-in with him myself.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, frowning. “A nice woman like you…”

  “Yeah. Well. On the list of life’s problems…”

  I let the end of my sentence linger in the air.

  “Vinny’s a great kid,” I say. “He really seemed to enjoy himself today.”

  “I’m glad,” he says.

  “And Coach Mike is always welcoming to new team members.”

  “I’ll have to remember to thank him. What’s his last name?”

  “Janowicz,” I say. “I’ll add his contact info to the list.”

  “This is so kind of you,” he says. “I sure got lucky to find an angel like you.”

  Angel. That’s only the second time I’ve ever been called that. The first was him, this morning, on the phone.

  He stares at me for a moment. He smiles.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say too quickly. “Gotta start dinner for the kids. I’ve got three. Ben’s in the fourth grade. Joey’s a junior in high school. And my daughter, Caroline. That’s her out there now.”

  I point. Caroline is standing in front of our house, chatting with a neighbor who’s walking her dog.

  “She’s lovely,” Vince says. “I can see where she gets it from. What was the name of that dry cleaner again?”

  “Harry. But don’t tell him I sent you.”

  “Never,” he says with great solemnity. He holds his hand up as if he is about to swear on a Bible. I say good-bye. Then he closes the door and I stand there, not moving at all. It’s after six, and getting dark, but everything seems a little brighter than when I first rang the doorbell.

  Chapter 9

  Friday morning I wake up at six forty-five, stumble downstairs in my bathrobe, get out the mayo, and open two cans of tuna to fix sandwiches for the kids. Ned is already up and dressed and making impatient faces at the Nespresso machine. It’s casual Friday, which means Ned has scrapped his usual Brioni suit for some J. Crew khakis and a J. Crew shirt. Tall, lanky, his thinning blond hair still swooping across his eyes, he looks the way he always does: handsome, but perpetually annoyed.

  “Do you think Caroline looks like me?” I ask him.

  “Don’t be silly,” he says. “She’s blond. You’re brunette.”

  I can see
where she gets it from.

  At seven fifteen, Ben walks into the kitchen.

  “Have a good day, my man,” Ned says to him. They pound knuckles as Ned leaves.

  “Good morning, Sunshine,” I say, cutting the crusts off Caroline’s sandwich, putting tomato on Ben’s, and smearing Joey’s with salsa.

  “What’s today?” Ben asks as he takes a cereal box out of the kitchen cabinet.

  “The fourteenth.”

  “Oh, no.” He looks panicky.

  “I thought you loved Fridays.”

  “Today’s the day we’re doing our Famous Artists presentation. I need to bring my van Gogh costume to school.”

  “What? Why did you wait till now to tell me?”

  “I didn’t. I brought home that paper for you to sign last week.”

  I check the refrigerator door—home to all notices, clippings, and other assorted reminders from my eternal to-do list. Sure enough, the Famous Artists Fact Sheet is there, right underneath a bill from the butcher. I freak a little bit.

  “I don’t even know what van Gogh looks like! Quick—let’s google him.”

  Ben pulls out his cell phone. Before I can say “how-can-you-find-that-so-quickly-using-just-your-thumbs,” he has pulled up a range of van Gogh self-portraits.

  “Okay,” I say, my eye on the clock. “He wore ascots a lot. Take your blazer to school. And we’ll borrow a scarf from Dad.”

  I go to the hall closet. Ned’s antique 1930s white silk scarf is hanging on a padded hanger.

  I slide it out from the cellophane wrapper and hand it to Ben. “Make sure you bring it back. It’s Dad’s favorite.”

  “How do I tie it?”

  “Like this.” I drape it around his neck and make a simple loop.

  “Now, what about the blood?”

  “What blood?”

  He rolls his eyes. “The blood from where he cut off his ear, remember?”

  I find some gauze in our family first-aid kit. Then I dribble some red food coloring on it and wrap it around Ben’s forehead.

  “How do I look?” he asks.

  “Like you’ve been in a train wreck,” I say.