Thy Neighbor (12 page)

There was something strangely mesmerizing and calming about it, like watching a fire lick and crackle in a grate.

Often, he had bad dreams, or fitful ones, where he cried out and moaned unintelligible words or nonsensical combinations of real words. Sometimes he woke many times a night, usually with a jerk and a panicked search beneath and around him, as if he thought that rousing himself prematurely would forestall the dreaded leak.

He didn't wet himself every night. Not at all. In fact, he'd go weeks without an incident and come tantalizingly close to release—a month clean was the marker—but then, heartbreakingly, he'd lose it, and the cycle would start all over again.

I got so invested, I'd count the clean nights with him. He said the tally aloud to himself every night before he went to sleep.

“Fifteen days, Eric. Fifteen days. C'mon. You can do it. Stay tight.”

The longest he went was twenty-five days, and on that night, the twenty-fifth night, he woke at three a.m. to a puddle. He wept bitterly for an hour or more, interspersing curses with prayers.

“Please, God. Help me . . . fucking goddamn shitty bastard asshole fuck. PLEEEEEEAAASE.”

He slapped at his crotch and his face and banged his head against the cage, pleading and swearing all the while like some medieval monk stuck squarely in the dark night of the soul and madly flagellating his way out.

By the time four forty-five rolled around—Gruber always woke his whole family at five and made the boys go with him for a six-mile run—Eric was so desperate to hide the evidence that he tried to lick it up. Of course, he disgorged it almost immediately, and then the puddle was bigger and more obvious.

Gruber came in at five as usual, pounding two pans together like a drill sergeant.

He stopped short as soon as he looked down into the cage.

Given the teasing evidence before him, newly yucked and flaunting right there in the plastic pan, he didn't even have to do his customary white-gloved swipe to know what was what. He realized immediately, and he flew into a rage far worse than the usual tirade he delivered when Eric messed.

He unlocked the crate hurriedly, panting with rage, and pulled Eric out by his hair.

“You conniving little bastard. How dare you try to deceive me.”

Eric hung from his father's fists, limp and gangly. There was barely life in him, and no resistance.

I cried like a little girl watching this, raking at my face in disgust, terror, and futile sympathy. Is there any other kind? As he hung there letting himself be hit, I swear I felt I could hear Eric's thoughts in my own.

Just let it happen and it will all be over sooner.

But when? When would it be over? How long had this been going on? How many years of confinement and pain and humiliation?

Here was a boy wanting nothing more than to wrench out his own plumbing or gum it up for good. Here he was hating his poor penis at the very time when most boys were rapturous with the pleasure it gave them, convulsed with self-imposed ecstasy every chance they got.

Not Eric. Never Eric. It'd be a miracle if he didn't lop the thing off before he passed puberty. He'd never be free with it. He'd never love it. Probably never even enjoy it. That, too, would be denied him along with so much else in the wake of this nightmare. Discharges of whatever kind would happen, as they did now, against his will.

Man, I wanted to punish Gruber for this. Waterboard him with piss. An army corps's worth of communal piss. Buckets of it, thick and amber like dark beer, right down his gullet. Choke and revive, slow and drawn out, for years, until he died, not by drowning but of fucking gout.

Wouldn't superhero me do that?

Wouldn't St. Nick take Gruber down?

Yeah, he and what army?

It was no good. I wasn't that man. But I wasn't
that
man, either. Was I? The abuser? That was Gruber on the screen, not me. I was not the culprit. Not yet. So far as I knew. But was being the culprit really so much worse than being the witness? The witness who didn't do anything? Didn't even say anything, who silently complied knowing everything? Gruber was a savage, but I was a coward. Not capable. A gawking fantasist hanging around with the knowledge and the evidence and a wholly Catholic hard-on for justice, but no grit.

No grit.

Eric did his five a.m. run that morning with his dad and brothers on a stomach that was emptier than usual.

And he put his pain into sport. I have no doubt.

Later he would put it into drink. Of that I have no doubt, either. It was in his genes as much as his upbringing, same as me.

That morning the Gruber men came home to Ellie serving up the usual rancher's feast. Eggs, bacon, pancakes. The works. I couldn't see this with my cameras, since I didn't have any eyes in their kitchen, but I could hear the sounds of clinking cutlery and muted conversation from the mic in the family room. I heard the rest from Jeff, who filled in the gaps when I questioned him after our tennis games—what they ate, what they talked about, and what they didn't.

He wouldn't say much.

They didn't talk about much, certainly not about the horror that was going on all around them. Most of what was said was said by Gruber, orders given and yes-sirred, new chores assigned and past ones accounted for as done. Ellie, as always, said nothing. She served and cleared the plates unnoticed, as if sustenance and cleanliness were things that just appeared of their own accord, like dawns and dusks.

Then the house would empty for the day. Gruber off to the shop, the boys off to school, and Ellie to the rest of her housework, or to the family room couch, where she sat reading or watching the tube, vapid as a hole in the fabric of space-time.

Last of all, when all else was finally still and silent, I'd often hear Iris, alone in the dark of Gruber's study, cawing fitfully the words that a girl had taught her so long before. She talked and talked, beautifully, as if she were reminding the darkness itself, as much as the people in it, or near it, of something they could no more remedy than comprehend.

Its pinnacle to heavenward . . .

Its pinnacle to heavenward . . .

And signifies the sureness of the soul.

12

I got a Facebook message from Dave today. All it said was, “We should talk.”

No shit, jackass.

We should talk.

Ya think?

We'll do more than talk, I can promise you that.

Such a prick. He knows where I live. He's over here unannounced all the time, but now he's suddenly Mr. Diplomat because I saw him in his red vinyl underpants presiding like Sid Vicious at the Chelsea Hotel.

“Bring it,” I said.

Pull your fist out of the hostess and stagger across the street. I'll be waiting.

And he did.

Not fifteen minutes after I sent my reply he was abusing the bell as usual.

I've got to rip that thing out of the wall one of these days and replace it with one of those novelty shockers that clowns hide in their palms, except I need a high-voltage model that's meant for steers or something, so it'll really hurt.

I opened the door and the fat simp was standing there hunched into a navy sport coat two sizes too small, a white dress shirt so soiled it was the color of a smoker's teeth, and a kelly green patterned tie so thick and pilled and awful it looked as if it had been made out of cast-off upholstery from the local Hampton Inn. The Windsor knot in it was the size of a human heart, and the tail barely reached his navel. If I hadn't known him all my life I would have sworn he was an obese sixth grader escaped from a school trip with the debate team.

“What is this,” I laughed, “the model UN?”

“A gesture,” he said, stone-faced.

“Really?” I scratched my head. “Huh. What kind of gesture would that be, then?”

“Respect.”

“Respect,” I mimicked, laughing again. “I see.”

“I'm trying, Nick,” he said, still dead serious, “Don't make this harder.”

I clapped him on the shoulder.

“Oh, Dave, my friend, I'm only just getting started. You don't know from hard.”

He pulled away and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. Those at least were his own, an inoffensive gray flannel, inseam, say, 32, waist circa 48. He was the guy that body mass index charts and nutrition fact postings were made for, and he was also the guy on whom they never had the slightest deterrent effect. He went right on shoveling saturated fats and refined sugars as if snacks made by petroleum companies were featured at the base of the food pyramid.

He was a bit thrown by my comment, unsure how to proceed. I'd never spoken to him this way before. He backed away from me on the stoop and swiveled his head toward the Katzes' house, then back again to me. Over his shoulder I could see that Dorris was standing behind her storm door in a lilac terry cloth robe, watching.

“Oh, I get it,” I said. “So this was her idea. No wonder you look like you had that outfit foisted on you by a maître d'. You had it picked off a thrift rack by a skank.”

He gave me a pained expression.

“Are you gonna let me in or what?”

This was definitely Dorris's mission. Why not get it over with?

“Yeah, yeah, all right, you whipped little errand boy. Come in.”

I stepped aside and let him pass, then stepped back into the doorway and gave Dorris two sarcastic thumbs up. She gave me the finger and closed her door.

By the time I'd closed my own door and made my way into the study, Dave was perched on the edge of the couch wringing his hands like a salesman raring to pitch.

This should be good, I thought. Dave the dummkopf talking it out. He was going to be like one of those chimps that primatologists taught sign language, hoping at long last to tap the depths of the simian brain, except all he was going to say was, “More bananas.”

“So what's on your mind, big man?” I said, as seriously as I could manage.

He had picked up the TV remote from the coffee table and was fiddling with it, tracing lines and squares between the buttons. When I spoke, he threw it down carelessly and it tumbled onto the floor.

“Sorry,” he said, lunging for it.

He was too fat to bend far enough to reach it. He squirmed there pathetically, groping blindly, his tie drooping, the buttons on his shirtfront straining until I thought they'd pop off and pelt me in the face. He wasn't wearing an undershirt.

The oxford cloth pouched to accommodate his bulge, revealing pasty crescents of tufted flesh, each engorged around a single menacing white eye, a line of them down his chest, unmasked, like the dread face of a Hindu god.

“Leave it,” I said, shuddering.

He sat back, out of breath, and smoothed his tie back into place.

Krishna the destroyer disappeared.

“Look,” he faltered. “Uh . . . you know . . . now that you know about me and Dorris . . .”

He paused.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“Well, there's some stuff we need to clear up.”

“Clear up?” He was such a weasel. “What's to clear up? So you're banging Dorris. Big deal. I'm sure by now even the PTA knows that.”

A panicked look streaked across his face.

“You think so?”

I crossed my arms and leaned my ass against the desk, shaking my head in disbelief.

“You're a fucking idiot, you know that? Really, it's quite amazing that you can breathe on your own. How do you manage it?”

He looked hurt, then confused, searching my face for cues. Was I joking? Was I being cruel?

“How did you know?” he said.

“Because it was obvious, you moron. The way she moved on you at the Swan the other night, for one. Even someone with brain damage would have known that you two were together. And by the way, you were a complete A-hole to her. You treated her like she was something you'd tracked in on your shoe.”

He smiled at this proudly, like he was the campus pussy-bandit being lauded for his prowess by his unlaid friends.

“It's not funny,” I said. “I'm not giving you a compliment.”

The smile vanished, and he swallowed hard with a grimace, as if he'd just sampled a carton of soured milk.

“And the other night at Dorris's when you two went—ostensibly—to make us drinks. Did you think that would just pass unnoticed? I could hear you canoodling in the kitchen.”

He jumped on the mention of the fateful night, relieved. I had brought us around to the subject.

“That's actually why I'm here, Nick.”

“Why? To tell me that you make a lousy Rob Roy and that you sound like one of Jerry's Kids when you're turned on?”

“Screw you, dickhead,” he shouted, suddenly very angry. “At least I pick on people my own age.”

“Not quite,” I said, “but whatever.”

He kicked one of the near legs of the coffee table.

“I'm not the one who's done anything wrong here. You're the one who has shit to answer for.”

He was getting worked up, and very quickly. The asthma was already choking him. You could hear the rasping edge in his breath.

“Answer to whom?” I said, haughtily. “You? That's rich.”

“No, not to me . . .”

He broke off, coughing.

He ransacked his pockets for his inhaler, found it, and took a long, deep pull.

I didn't wait for him to finish.

“Monica's a grown woman,” I said. “Not that it's any of your business. She's more mature than any of us by a long way. But then, how would you know that? She's never said a word to you. She tagged you as a reptile from the start.”

He exhaled loudly and coughed again.

“That little slice has nothing on me,” he said, still coughing in sharp, thick bursts. “She can suck my balls.”

He slapped his chest a few times, brought up a gob of phlegm, and spit it onto the floor. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I'm not talking about Monica.”

This was intolerable.

“Look, you lowlife piece of shit,” I shouted, “the only reason you're sitting here is because I plan to kick the living slime out of you, precisely for the crime of corrupting a minor, so don't even think about lecturing me about the age of consent.”

Now I was the one out of breath.

“What the fucking hell did you think you were doing waltzing around Dorris's place in front of Miriam wearing those mail-order ball-hangers you had on the other day? Do you realize she fled over here to escape you, and begged me to get rid of you? She thinks you're hurting Dorris. It's bad enough that she's actually heard you two barking the night away—that will scar her for life, you can be sure—but she's had to see the marks of it, too, all over her mother's body. And to make matters worse, she's had to see the hairy perpetrator himself swanning around at breakfast in his fuck duds as if this were his own private circle of hell. I could kill you.”

“Whoa, whoa. Hold on just a second,” he wailed, making a halting gesture with his palm. “I've never done a thing to that girl. It's not my fault if Dorris can't afford a sitter.”

“Can't afford? You mean won't bother. Besides, Dorris doesn't need a sitter. She needs a parole officer. And you? Are you completely incapable of controlling yourself? Ever?”

He stood up.

“I came here to ask you the same thing, you fucking pervert.”

He was unsteady on his feet and sat down again.

He glared across at me, vexed by his immobility, his torso formless and bulked around him like a beanbag.

“Did you think no one would notice your little private lesson with Miriam?” he sneered. “That's why she was over here, you know? You whispered some voodoo spell into her ear the other night and now she thinks you're Jesus in blue jeans.”

That was Dorris's phrase for sure. Verbatim. So stupid. And stupider still coming out of Dave's mouth.

“They say that's how pedophiles do it, though, right?” he added. “It's like hypnosis or something. They turn the kids into zombies and get 'em to come to
them
.”

“Save Dorris's criminal profiling claptrap for someone who cares, Dave,” I said. “I do not want to hear it. I really, really don't.”

“Fine.” He sighed. “That's fine.”

He managed a deep breath. The medicine was starting to work.

“The truth is, I don't care what you do with that kid,” he said, “so long as you leave me out of it, and so long as Dorris doesn't find out about it. But don't tell me about how to behave around a kid. I do what I want, and so can you. Just don't get in my way.”

I exploded. Pushing myself up from the desk, I stood and took a step toward him.

“I can't believe I'm actually going to defend myself here, but on principle, and to get some peace, I'm going to clear this up once and for all, because, apparently, you and Dorris think the rest of the world is as disgusting as you are, and you feel quite free to accuse from the top of your own reeking dung heap.”

“Defend yourself?” he balked. “Who are you kidding? You can't even remember three-quarters of what you do on any given night. Have you looked at your own Facebook page lately?”

“Facebook. Oh, well, now there's some reliable testimony for you. Those people don't have a single brain between them, and certainly not a functioning short-term memory.”

“Neither do you, dude. That's my point.”

“Oh, is that your point?”

I picked up the fallen remote and dashed it against the wall behind and just above Dave's head. The plastic cracked and the batteries scattered.

“The only point you have is in your pants, you retarded fucking rhino, so why don't you just head back to Twin Pines like a good little pachyderm and yank yourself numb in your bedroom. And if that doesn't satisfy you, well, you can always go back to hate-criming your neighbors. That's usually good for a laugh. Oh, wait, I forgot, your sister's your neighbor now. Well, I'm sure with some help from a search engine and a pair of night vision goggles you could find out where Jack Gordon is living and where all the unguarded entrances are.”

He was definitely not expecting that. His face went fuchsia.

He gasped. “You know I never did shit to that Hebrew.”

“No, actually, Dave, I know that you did in fact do a great deal to that Hebrew, as you so delicately put it, and I have the evidence to prove it.”

He froze.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

He couldn't even pretend to be outraged. He was like a kid in a playground batting back taunts. Each protest was an admission of guilt.

“There is no evidence. Even the cops said that.”

“No evidence that anyone found.”

He had broken into a sweat so sudden and so profuse that the collar of his shirt was darkening.

“You twit,” I said, relishing his panic. “You'd be hopeless in an interrogation room. You'd cave like a sand castle in two minutes tops.”

He yanked open his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. His breathing was getting labored again. He reached for his inhaler once more and took another long draw, then dropped it in his lap and fell back against the couch.

Looking at him there, I actually managed to feel sorry for him, the lump of shit. Beating him to a pulp would have been like clubbing a seal. He was down already, and I hadn't even touched him. He was gasping again miserably.

But I had a vice around my own lungs, too, and a thickening in my throat. I was stuck on what he'd said about Miriam.

He was right. I didn't remember. Not much anyway. Not enough.

Not nearly enough to defend myself. He could have made up anything and made me vulnerable to it, and he knew it. He knew the depths of my blackouts better than anyone, including Monica.

What did I remember?

Think.

I remembered Dave snorting and grunting with Dorris in the kitchen, vaguely, and I remembered sitting in Dorris's living room, marveling that I was seeing her house for the first time not through a lens. I remembered my head spinning and my vision blurring and I remembered wondering if I should get up and go to the bathroom to puke. With effort, I even remembered Miriam, or an apparition of her, appearing at my side in her nightgown. But I had no memory of what, if anything, we said or—God forbid—did. None.