The Neighbor
(Read another story here and here.)
Variant version published in Ami Magazine, July 2024.
“What is he doing?”
“Will you come away from the window? You’ve been spying for twenty minutes.”
“Not spying. Getting fresh air.”
I press as close to the glass as I can without smudging it, aiming for a better look.
“Go for a walk.”
“Not when he’s out there!”
“And if he looks up and sees you? Come away.”
My sister moves through our room without a single curious glance out the window, but I can’t tear myself away just yet. Across the street and one house over, a new neighbor moved in basically overnight. There wasn’t even a “For Sale” sign before the house had a new resident. Though I didn’t mean to notice it, I do have a habit of looking out the window from time to time, and something about the new neighbor caught me. Not that he makes a lot of noise or anything, but he’s, well, strange.
“Just look for a second!” I plead. “Explain what he’s doing.”
“No idea. Let it go.”
A light drizzle falls, but that hasn’t stopped our neighbor from donning a green poncho over his ball cap and cargo shorts then turning on his hose to…water the garage?
I press even closer. The shade shicks down and I jump back to preserve my nose.
“Stop spying,” my sister commands.
“He’s watering his house! In the rain!”
“I don’t care. He’s not bothering us.”
I grit my teeth wondering how much I’ll gain from arguing. I could find another window to look through, but ours has the best view of the neighbor. Do I really have nothing better to do than face-off for dominance of the shades?
“Fine,” I hiss. “But I’m telling you, there’s something weird about him.”
“Everyone’s weird, starting with you,” my sister replies, rolling her eyes.
***
It’s another few weeks before I catch the neighbor being an oddball again. I wasn’t looking for it either, so who knows what else he’s been up to. The desk in our room is up against the wall, and it’s only a short roll on the swivel chair to the window. Today, I just happened to glance out when the neighbors directly across the street bounded from their home, giggling and singsonging to each other.
Their house is an ode to the fifties, and the family matches it. It’s painted a soft yellow with white trim, has an actual gable and white picket fence, a perfectly trimmed lawn, well-kempt flower bed, and wooden swing tied to the thick branch of a large oak sheltering the front yard in its shade. I haven’t been past the front gate, but I’d bet there’s a wrought iron bench and birdbath as well.
The father wears three-piece suits, the mom cardigans. She probably arranges bake sales and buys extra art supplies for the classroom. Their three girls have blue eyes, blond hair, and red ribbons at the end of their braids. They moved in not long before the new neighbor, but it feels like they’ve been on the block forever. We’re friendly, the kind of neighbors who wave at each other across the street and share extra apples and oranges from our trees.
Not like the guy next door. Tall, lanky, with greasy hair curling out from the back of his cap. Rummaging in his garage. He waves to the family and they greet him back. I shake my head at him and his preying on the kindness of good people.
“What happened?” my sister asks, coming up behind me.
“The neighbors.”
“Again!”
I point toward the three little girls. They’re wearing sparkly dresses and their hair’s pulled into neat buns.
“Dance recital?”
“Aw, so cute.”
“Yes, a lovely, regular family…unlike that guy!” I jab a finger at the new neighbor. “What? What? What is he doing?”
“Not again,” my sister moans. “He’s just organizing his garage.”
“It’s so empty! Who has a garage like that? He’s not normal.”
“It’s not empty, there’s a stack of black containers.”
“And what’s inside those black containers?”
“None of your business.”
“Anything, that’s what. They’re opaque. They’re dishonest. Super, incredibly shady.”
“Please take up a hobby. Knitting or something.”
“Well, I can knit at the window.”
“Okay, no knitting. Something away from the window.”
“It’s called being a conscientious neighbor. It’s the right thing to do.”
“There was a mugging here once! Ten years ago! It’s not going to happen again.”
“Because I’m keeping an eye on things.”
“No, your imagination is making up things so you’re speaking nonsense.”
“I’m just saying it’s weird for a guy—‘Greg’—to move all alone to a house in the suburbs.”
“That’s what people do. They live in homes. And why do you say his name like that? How do you even know it?”
“I heard him introduce himself to the family on his left.”
“And you’re calling him shady? You’re a meddling busybody!”
“Conscientious neighbor. I bet he’s in the witness protection program.”
“What?”
“Running from the cartels or something,” I grab my sister’s arm. “I know! He used to be in the cartels! And now he’s retired and hiding from the law.”
“He’s not hiding. He’s organizing his garage in broad daylight.”
“There’s just no knowing what he’ll bring down on this neighborhood.”
“You and your knitting needles are certainly fearsome deterrents.”
I give my sister a smug smile, just you wait and see I’m right.
***
I’m meandering the aisles of the local grocery store when something snags my eye. I turn and immediately duck behind my shopping cart, pretending to compare prices of pie filling on the bottom shelf. I scramble to pull out my phone and message my sister, frantic.
He’s here!
I peek around the cart wheels and fix on a pair of muddy boots at the end of the aisle. Forever passes before my sister messages back.
Who?
The neighbor.
Where?
At the grocery store.
There’s a long pause, and then, conscientious neighbors say ‘hi’.
Crazy? No!
Wow. Who would think our neighbor also bought food at a store?
Big protein eater.
Another pause. Please tell me you’re not following him.
“I’m not following him.”
Honest?
You didn’t say it had to be honest.
Get home!
He has a holster!
You need to holster your brain.
That doesn’t even make sense.
Oh, so you still remember what sense is? Get home NOW!
Didn’t get everything yet.
We’ll get it another day. You know, when it’s safer.
Fine, fine. I’ll be home soon as I find the knitting needle aisle.
***
“Pssst, you up?”
“Go away.”
“Come see this.”
“No.”
“You have to.”
“Emergency?”
“Depends on your method of labeling.”
“Go away.”
“You have to see, Witness Protection is working in his yard.”
“Thought you said he’s in the cartel.”
“Former cartel. What do you think he’s burying?”
“Your sanity. Stop spying.”
“I wasn’t spying. I was going to bed and because the light’s out, when I glanced through the window, I saw movement outside. So I went to look.”
“So you saw, now go to sleep.”
“It’s midnight and he’s decorating! Who does that?”
“An insomniac?”
“He’s lining the yard with flower pinwheels.”
“That’s very legal.”
“And see, now here’s the shovel. What’s he burying?”
“Or planting. Think there were flower pots before.”
“Okay, well, what’s he burying under the flowers?”
“If you don’t let me sleep, I’m going to scream so loud he’ll know you’re watching.”
“Okay, okay. But don’t say you weren’t warned.”
***
My sister hasn’t spoken to me beyond the necessary communications of room-sharers in almost a week, and I’m getting the message. I still keep an eye on the block, and our new neighbor in particular, but I don’t share my observations anymore and keep my worries to myself.
If my sister wants to miss the most exciting thing that’s happened here in over a decade that’s on her. Though I do want our family to be prepared if the cartel ever comes looking for this guy, to recruit him back or that other thing they do to people who try to escape. Though could be actual witness protection will get here first. I suppose I’ll know depending on how they get him into the car.
Maybe my imagination has gotten the better of me, but no one can honestly say it’s without cause. I don’t care what my sister thinks, there’s something peculiar about a guy who washes his garage in the rain and plants flowers at midnight. Not just weird, suspicious.
And that’s aside from the asymmetrical packages he sometimes carries into his garage after dark. The way he’ll line up those mysterious black containers like a wall at the front of the garage, then sort through them on his knees facing the street. Always with eyes on the street. He feigns casualness, but watching from the window one floor up, I’m onto him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s a conscientious neighbor too. But how can he be when he spends an entire Wednesday raking leaves, as if he doesn’t have real work to get to?
No one on the block seems to notice. Granted, they might not all be stealing glances at their neighbors when they’re looking for the moon through their windows at midnight or shuddering from how the streetlight casts bony shadows of the trees in his yard onto his house, as if the world itself is sending a warning. They greet him as he fixes his bike in the driveway and wave as he arranges and rearranges his garden gnomes in nonsense positions as if they’re watching the neighborhood. Everyone just acting like everything’s normal, but I know it’s not.
Worse, the nice family across the street just lets their girls skip right over and exchange hi-fives like he’s their uncle. Yesterday, they brought him a plate of homemade cookies. Surely, the parents know they shouldn’t let their girls be so friendly with such a questionable sort.
Much as I see from my window, and discounting watching from behind displays at the grocery, I only got my first real good look at “Greg” a few days ago.
It was a warm spring day, the morning chill whisking away the clouds when it went so the afternoon sky was a deep and beautiful blue. I had just passed the park two blocks away, when I heard a dog bark and glanced over my shoulder thinking someone was coming up behind me. Well, someone was behind me all right, but it wasn’t a dog. That was across the street with its owner. Rather, our neighbor was coming up fast on my heels, as if an old man on a skateboard was a totally normal occurrence around a park filled with kids. Okay, not old but at least fifty. Maybe forty-seven.
Just seconds before I’d waved at the mom from across the street, who was at the park with her girls. And now “Greg” is skating around as if we all hang at the park on a regular basis.
I don’t think he recognized me, because he only offered a polite smile as he whizzed past. But I got a good look at him. Cargo shorts with pockets bulging with dubious items. Battered sneakers caked with mud from secret midnight diggings. Faded ball cap from a popular fishing store. Baggy t-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a skating company, which he was definitely too old to wear. And maybe I’m imagining things, but he definitely had a dark item that looked exactly like what a holster would hold tucked into the back of his pants.
“I’m watching you!” I wanted to shout, but only whispered at his back instead. “Just try and bring any trouble to our block.”
I had half a mind to walk faster to see what else I could pick up on, but as he reached our block ahead of me, he sped up just as a heavily tinted gray car turned, causing both to screech to a stop to avoid colliding. His board jerked and spilled him onto the street. Perhaps spilled isn’t the right word because as he fell forward he tumbled toward the car, enough to slap a hand against the passenger door to stop his momentum.
When he got up, he kept his head ducked as some gesturing and hand motions ensued, then the car zoomed forward and “Greg” went to get his board. But even as he turned his back, his head tilted up and he tracked the car with his eyes for several long seconds. Then he grabbed his board and looped around the way he’d come.
Instead of hurrying, my steps slowed as I replayed the scene over and over the rest of the way home. It was difficult to slow down something so quick and unexpected, but I tried anyway, elongating as much as possible that moment when “Greg” tumbled to the street and stopped himself at the car.
Anyone watching would be impressed at how cleverly he’d turned a sure fall into a neat somersault but being so close and watching so intently I’d say it was all too neat, not just the recovery but the whole short-stop and fall to begin with.
Almost as if “Greg” had seen the car and wanted to tumble forward for a closer look. Almost as if “Greg’s” oddness was deliberate, like he wasn’t the one on the run.
***
It’s late, coming on midnight when I hear a persistent beeping. I stop and listen closely for the forgotten alarm clock calling for attention in the quiet house. My sister’s away for the weekend so I can’t ask if I’m just hearing things. She’d probably say I was anyway.
I poke my head into the hallway, but soon determine the sound isn’t coming from inside. I shrug, figuring it’ll turn off eventually. The sound persists as I ready for bed. On a whim, I look outside, then move closer to the window. I perk an ear. The beeping is definitely coming from out there.
I try to isolate the sound, as it’s the most annoying alarm ever. I debate if being a conscientious neighbor includes tracing the beeping and politely asking whomever it is if they can just shut their alarm because people are trying to sleep. I think of my sister accusing me of being a busybody and leave the problem to take care of itself.
I sweep my eyes up and down the block. The street’s settled for the night, so quiet it could be the dead of winter. Even “Greg” is nowhere in sight, his house dark in the most suburban, least mysterious way possible. Probably having turtle races in the living room, I snort to myself.
There’s a frozen moment when it seems a whoosh passes through the block, as if something invisible darted down the street. An echo of footsteps. A car door shuts quiet and firm. An idling car comes to life and turns onto the main street. I squint. It looks like the same dark gray car from “Greg’s” not-spill, but it’s hard to tell from this angle.
The wind shifts and a strange smell rides the air. Like someone’s just fed a fireplace, which isn’t likely because it’s too warm for that. I open the window wider and smash my nose to the screen, peering in both directions for signs of smoke. My eyes lazily wander across the street and I blanch.
Dark smoke’s rising from the back of our neighbor’s house. I hesitate, doubting if I’m seeing correctly in the night. I grab my phone and wait a beat, sure someone’s about to come yelling out of the house. What do I do?
I’ve never made an emergency phone call before and my hands shake as I type the number in. What if I’m just imagining things? I won’t be able to leave my house for a decade, at least. My sister would disown me and I’ll be stuck camping in the backyard.
“What’s your emergency?”
“Um, I think my neighbor’s house is on fire.”
“Address?”
I give the information and am told firefighters are being dispatched. The call ends and I’m surprised at how simple it was. They didn’t even ask my name.
I glance back across the street and am sure the smoke has grown thicker. There’s still no movement from the house. The cars are parked in their driveway indicating everyone’s home, so why aren’t they getting out? And that beeping.
A sudden flicker of orange light appears from behind the house and I’m convinced the whole building’s about to explode. Horrible images of everyone sleeping soundly as flames crawl closer batter my mind and I’m out the door and running across the street, scattering a string of panicked syllables I can’t make out over my own terror.
I become an observer to my own self as adrenaline takes over. I alternate pounding on the door and ringing the bell, as if pressing harder will make it ring louder. I’m yelling and banging and frantic and choking on the smoke that’s starting to envelop the house. I glance around, desperate, and register no bench or birdbath.
It feels like the door is getting warmer beneath my fists and a wild vision has me kicking it in and barging up the stairs to save everyone inside. I start checking for a window I can break and think maybe now’s a time to call upon odd neighbors, when I turn from the door and almost run into a lanky figure. “Greg”?
Why’s it look like he jumped over the back fence and what’s he carrying over his shoulder? Am I seeing anything right? Smoke’s clouding my vision and coughing and blurring eyes don’t make it any better. The smoke alarm, I now realize, is blaring and I think there’s sirens coming and my ears are ringing with every nerve on the fritz from overdrive.
Images swirl confusedly as I’m directed to get away from the house and back across the street. I’m waving my phone and screaming about the people inside, but am told not to worry, and maybe I’m listening because I’m coughing and stumbling and then sitting on the curb in front of my house and I don’t even remember how I got there or if I was even the one to get myself here. Dimly I’m aware of glass shattering and I know the house will fireball. I want to warn everyone, but when I stand back up, I’m suddenly woozy. I’ll regather for a second then go, I tell myself as I flop back to the curb.
Fire. Fire. Fire. Blares through my thoughts with the alarm. I’m heaving thick breaths and terrified of every worst-case scenario and lights are turning on in houses and people are waking up from the commotion. My family comes out and rushes toward me on the curb, and I’m squinting across the street waiting for the red lights to show and struggling to understand where the family is.
The smoke and ash and heat play tricks with the air, warping images. Maybe it’s my imagination, but there’s movement in front of the house. The vague outline of a figure carrying bundles from the smoking interior. I think.
Time becomes a drunken keeper. I blink and then the youngest girl is in my lap. The air shifts and I blink again and she isn’t there.
I think someone’s trying to get me inside my own house, but I won’t budge. I shake my head to clear my vision, fighting against the onslaught to see and remember. Then the whole family’s outside in their pajamas and crying and hugging each other and their fear is so plain and strong it reaches me across the street.
Time skips a beat. The family’s blocked by emergency vehicles and whisked away in an ambulance. I frown as a police cruiser trails behind. Lights flash in erratic patterns of red and blue and white, muddling the scene further. Water sprays the perfect fifties’ house which is somehow still standing.
Fingers check my pulse and eyes and lungs. A crowd is gathered on our side of the street. I think I spot the new neighbor slinking toward the edge of the crowd. Is there worry in his eyes as he watches the ambulances speed away?
I want to message my sister and inform her that in fact I have been a conscientious neighbor, because even if nothing happened on this block in a decade, it’s good someone was keeping an eye on things tonight anyway.
***
I swim up from a deep, restorative sleep. I open my eyes and pain elicits a deep groan, “Ow.”
“Nice and easy,” my sister chimes as I roll over.
I struggle to sit up, an attempt immediately thwarted by a fit of coughing hard enough to spit up a lung.
“Owwwww.”
“Doctor said you took in a lot of smoke, but should be fine in a few days.”
And then it rushes back to me. Peering through the window. The smoke. The fire. Running across the street, screaming.
“Is everyone all right?” I scratch out.
My throat’s sore and rougher than sandpaper. Smoke inhalation did its own grand number, and screaming only helped it along.
“Yes. You must’ve been just in time.”
I furrow my pounding forehead. Images slosh through my mind indiscriminately, so it’s difficult to order them and determine what’s real. I’m relieved the family is safe, but don’t remember the firefighters carrying anyone out. In fact, I’m fairly certain the family was out of the house by the time they showed up. But how could that be if no one was outside when I got there?
I can’t make sense of it, and part of me is sure that though I can recall most of what happened, between the smoke and chaos, some of my memory’s distorted.
“So they’re all safe?” I confirm.
“Yes,” my sister repeats. “The house was a rental, so it’s pretty certain they won’t be moving back.”
“Too bad, they were a nice family.”
“Well, now you can watch the renovations. Make sure no one steals a wrench or anything.”
“Ha ha. Oh, ow.”
“By the way,” my sister waves her phone at me, “what’d you want to tell me? Was it about the fire?”
I stare at her in confusion.
“You sent a voice message, then deleted it. Just curious.”
I shake my head, not remembering. “When?”
My sister checks her phone. “It went away, but think it was around one in the morning, maybe?”’
So, after the fire. I check my phone, which has blown up with messages from concerned family and friends. I check my chat with my sister.
She’s right. The last message from me was deleted. I frown at the screen. I don’t remember any of it.
“Ah well, guess it’s not important,” she shrugs it away.
I want to agree though something’s nagging the blank spot in my memories. Everything hurts too much to probe. The brief conversation has left me beyond exhausted. I want to lay back down, but I’m determined to see what remains.
I struggle to my feet and walk creakily toward the window. I suspect I’ll fall over if I try to lean forward, so I content myself with blearily staring from a few feet away.
The former yellow fifties house with white trim and a gable is a scorched and blackened remnant of its former self, a goth offspring of the eighties. The oak is singed, the swing hangs from a single rope, through it otherwise seems most of the actual damage is in back.
A police cruiser sits in front, a bland black car parked behind it.
“Why’re the cops there?” I ask.
“Something to do with checking for arson, I think.”
“Arson? Who would want to do that to them?”
“Something something standard procedure,” she says.
I shake my head at her, annoyed she didn’t get more information as a conscientious neighbor should. A knot of men in suits move into the front yard from the back of the house, investigators or detectives or whatever. I squint to make out the men between the remnants of the oak’s shade and burned limbs, but it’s difficult to get a clear view from above. The most I can see is they look pretty serious.
My eyes flick one house over and my sister must notice because she comes up beside me and nods.
“Greg also moved out.”
“Hm?”
“His house probably stinks of smoke now. They have companies who repair that kind of stuff.”
“Who says he won’t be back?”
My sister shrugs. “Looked like he took everything. Those black containers. The hose. Even the gnomes.”
I frown at the empty house, trying to sort things through. I glance back toward the men, still deep in conversation. One of them shifts and I stare. He doesn’t have a board or the skater shirt, but his build and hair curling from under a new ballcap look an awful lot like a certain neighbor of ours. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was “Greg.” Though it obviously can’t be.
“Where was Greg at the fire?” my sister asks.
My frown deepens. Blurry images flit and muddle in my mind. The outline of a man carrying bundles from the home.
“I-I’m not sure.”
“Well, glad everyone’s all right in the end.”
“Lots happening on this block.” I turn back to bed.
“Sleep easy knowing everyone’s safe and your biggest concern has moved away.”
“Good,” I murmur, burrowing under the blanket, “he was super shady anyway.”