A Quiet Neighbor (34 page)

“No, it’s fine. Fine.”
Don’t go.
My
voice sounds slightly agitated, slightly higher-pitched; I can’t control it. I
can’t calm down. My pulse is thrumming in my ears. “It’s—er, it’s nice talking
to someone. All I’ve got is Mr. Dimples here.” I wring my hands and give the
leash a tiny tug. “So as you can see, I get lonely, too.”

She pauses and tilts her head. “So, what are
you doing out so late?”

“Mr. Dimples here was getting antsy for a walk,
so here we are.” My voice picks up speed as I continue to speak. It sounds more
like:
so hereweare
.

She looks down at the pug, now sitting side
saddle on the cold cement sidewalk—eyes drooping, jowls sagging, tongue
lolling—he doesn’t look like a dog that ever gets antsy or excited about
anything, at least not anymore. But everyone, even a lazy dog needs to use the
potty, right? At least she seems to buy the story.

“Mr. Dimples—? Oh…I knew I heard that name before.
Mr. Dimples!”

Puzzled, I furrow my brow.

“Oh, sorry. I just realized where I heard that
name before. Bella, my sister, was all excited last Halloween because she met a
cute dog named Mr. Dimples. Is this
the
Mr. Dimples?”

The cloudy film in my head clears somewhat and recognition
fills my eyes. In a flash everything in me goes distant and sad. I nod slowly, suddenly
lost in the memory of that tragic night when my old life ended and my search
for new meaning began. I am in a time portal to the past. The past where my
beloved Betsy lives.

Loral Holmes:

9:56
P.M.

What did I say?
Suddenly, the kind man with the sad eyes is gone. I can’t be sure, but there is
hardness around the edges that wasn’t there a moment ago. His eyes turn flat
and unreadable. He just looks, does not speak.

My heart trips. My pulse lurches like a
sprinter jumping the gun. Another cold breeze rustles the trees above. A tense
chuckle escapes my lips as fear creeps into my senses.
Ridiculous, Loral,
don’t be silly, this man is just out walking his dog like he was doing that
past Halloween. You’re reading into his eyes now? Really? Just let the man get
on his way and keep moving.

I cannot shake the sense something is terribly
wrong. I take a cautious step backward. The cold chain link fence yields a bit
against my weight, and my throat clenches. Panic sets in, and I try swallowing
it down. I feel trapped even though I have miles of open space on either side.

The man is not moving. He is still, silent.
Suddenly, he reaches out to me, his hands forming loose claws.

I jump back. The fence bows deeply, the diamond
shapes digging into my back.

In a low eerie voice, the man holds out both
his hands and whispers, “Betsy…shhh…it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.
I’m here to save you, Betsy. I love you. Betsy, come here please. Betsy. Oh,
Betsy.”

A jumble of questions flood my mind, but
rational thought is quickly steamrolled by tsunamic doom. Desperate, I try to
swallow the rising film of bile that coats my tongue and sticks dry in my
throat, but can’t. I can’t swallow, move, or think. I remember my cell and pull
it out of my back pocket. The screen is blank, battery dead.

I am trapped.

If I scream, what will that do?
The
streets are deserted and I will have to run downhill and through the handball
courts in the dark to reach the buildings. Even if I make it to the buildings,
the school is closed. It is summer break and there are no faculty members
burning the midnight oil, no teacher stuck inside correcting papers or
preparing exams. There are homes and apartments across the street, but he is
blocking the way. And no one would think twice if they could hear me scream. By
the time the scream is recognized as a cry for help instead of a cry of
passion, it would be too late.

I force myself to focus. He is harmless. I just
have to reach out to the sane part of him I met in the beginning. He has to be
in there somewhere. Sucking in a breath of the cool night air, I gulp noisily.

“Betsy? Why did you call me Betsy? Who is she?
Is she someone I should know?”

He grins. It is a manic kind of smile that
makes me wonder what he is capable of. Is it my imagination or did the air turn
thick and still?

“Betsy…”

I gulp for air again. “I’m sorry, I think you’ve
got the wrong person. My name is Loral.”

He shakes his head, the tufts of white whoosh
around like smoke, the eyes burn steady like coals. His voice is almost
inaudible and comes out in a faint whisper. But the message rings clear: he is
totally psycho.

“Betsy, now why would you say that? I know
you’re mad that I didn’t come get you sooner, but I’m here now. You’re safe.
He’s not going to hurt you anymore. You can trust me.”

My fingers close tightly around the chain link,
my knuckles turning white, fingers aching from the strain. Yet I won’t, can’t
let go. I have to anchor myself to something or else I will crumple limp beside
Mr. Dimples.

Desperate, I blindly search for an escape. I
grope for an angle. He seems fond of this Betsy. Was she his wife? Girlfriend?
Lover? I try the first one, hoping for the best.

“Is Betsy your wife? The one you would never
cheat on?”

His hazel eyes clear for a second before
hardening again, like ice. Goose bumps rise along my flesh and I shudder
beneath my hoodie. It is not the cold night air that chills me, it is his
presence. Tears fill his eyes but he makes no motion to brush them away. He
just lets them fall. “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand! I told you
that I’m SORRY!”

His voice crescendos, shaky and irritable.

“I love you, Betsy. Please come home with me where
you belong.” His voice, flat and cool. “Before I get really upset.”

Panic sears my nerves. I watch in slow motion
as he moves toward me. Large hands reach out to grab hold and take me. What
does he want from me? Where is he going to take me? To his home, or to some
abandoned lot? To do what? Rape me? Kill me? Enslave me? I don’t know what he
has in store, but the possibilities skittering through my scared mind make me
squirt a small amount of urine into my jeans. I am overcome with shame and
embarrassment.

My first assessment of this man was completely wrong.
I let this old man’s feeble build and charming pet disarm me. Did this crazy
old guy cheat on his wife? Did she leave him? Did he kill her?

I try to scream. A muffled gasp escapes. It is like
trying to scream through a mouthful of cotton balls. With no weapon except my
own hands, my only recourse is to move and move fast.

My fingers mercifully unlock from the chain link,
my legs unfreeze.

I react swiftly. Dodging his first attempt to
grasp hold of my arm gives me a flash of hope. I turn to run past him, toward
the apartments. Maybe if I run fast enough, I can get someone to help.

With unexpected agility, he sidesteps to cut me
off; grunting, he lowers his shoulder into my chest and knocks me backward.
Full-blown panic takes over. Full of adrenaline, I cannot feel pain. I crouch
down, blindly clawing at the dirt, attempting to escape through a tiny gap
beneath the fence. The meager attempt is short-lived. I hear a petrified scream
before my vision erupts into sparks, then closes to a blinding shade of black.
Too quick, I do not register my own voice.

It is too late.

…Hearts sink, limbs fall, eyes abound.

Chapter
Twenty-Eight:

Tuesday,
June 19, 2012

10:02
P.M.

Neil Wilcox:

My evil Betsy rocks back from the blow, and falls
on all fours, exposing the nape of her neck. I knife downward with the edge of
my hand, making direct contact with the base of her skull. She falls, lifeless,
atop the tiny patches of faded grass. She lies frozen. Dead.

Mr. Dimples stirs, as if awakened from a dream.
He shuffles toward the unmoving body and presses his wet nose against her
chilled hand. He gives the cold hand a cursory lick before slumping into a
wheezing lump next to her unmoving, still-warm body.

I cannot move. I slump into an awkward kneel in
front of her solid body, chilled from the sudden rush of cold air, and cover my
face with my hands in angst. Pain rips open my heart and I gasp from the
gut-wrenching pain. Wiping my moist eyes with the backs of my hands, I crouch,
agape. Reaching over to feel her pulse, my fingers quiver from the
disheartening knowledge that the girl lying before me is not unconscious, but
dead.

Disbelief. Minutes go by without a single
movement from either of us. I sit patiently hoping that the absent pulse was
misread and she will awaken any second, slightly disoriented but perfectly fine
and alive. Checking my watch, seven minutes have passed without so much as a
twitch or flicker of movement.

I stare, transfixed at her pale and beautiful
face. Her lips, turning a shade closer to blue; her frail body, crumpled and
twisted. In a daze I roll her onto her back and unwind her limbs. She shouldn’t
be stuck in this uncomfortable position. It is not restful.

Fear. What can I do? How can I help ease my
Betsy’s suffering? Scanning the grounds I spot a wavering sparkle of color at
the bottom of the ramp, washed to a saturated yellow hue by a solitary
sodium-vapor lamp. I trot down to get a closer look. To my surprise, it is a
flower bed filled with colorful poppies, gently waving half-closed in the
evening’s on-shore breeze. The small flower garden must be tended by students,
most likely a community service club. Being set behind what looks to be the auto
shop yard, no one will be tending to the garden until school starts back up and
the poppies will surely die without care. My Betsy would want me to do
something about this. She always loved her flowers.

It is perfect.

Excitement. It creeps into my bloodstream. My
pupils dilate. Returning to my Betsy’s cold body, I try to lift her. Nothing;
her dead weight won’t budge. The strain pulls tight against my already tender
back muscles and I stifle a squeal of pain by biting down on my lower lip, drawing
blood. I suck the wound absent-mindedly, relishing the taste of copper,
serendipitously not letting a single drop of blood fall to the ground or touch
my hands.

Luck is on my side. Even at this time of night,
a steady stream of cars would normally be parading by, illuminating this very
spot with their bright headlights. It is not uncommon for police to make night
patrols down this way, either. But no one comes. We are alone. Just like that
night on Halloween, but this time we’ll have peace and time on our side.

I regroup. I decide to drag her by pulling up
on her armpits and walking backwards, so not to risk harming her any further. I
cannot bear the thought of hurting her more. I love her.

Dragging her body downhill is slow and tedious.
I have to drag her backwards across the dirt embankment, up and over clumps of
grass, through a tiny gap in the loosely chained gate, and down the decaying
asphalt ramp. Smudges of dirt lay behind us. I hope not to inflict more pain
than need be. I did not want to hurt her. I did not want her dead, but she
wasn’t listening to me. She was going to leave me. She didn’t listen.

Bargaining. “Work with me, dear! You want to
see the pretty flowers, right?” Huffing and puffing, my sore muscles scream
with each step. Tears roll down my cheeks as I plead with my Betsy. “Don’t be
dead, dear. Oh, Betsy! Not dead. Not gone!” I stop, collapsing over her
unmoving body, sobbing. A single tear falls onto the shoulder of her hoodie.

Acceptance. I rise, exhaling deeply in a cosmic
sigh, and again I clamp my hands under her armpits, and drag until I cannot
drag any more. I finally make it to the garden, huffing and puffing but
otherwise intact.

As the thrumming of my heartbeat subsides in my
ears, I hear Mr. Dimples’ collar jangling from the top of the hill. I look up
and see the greenish reflection of my kid’s eyes strafing back and forth along
the fence in excitement and agitation, watching me with a certain loyalty. I absently
recall forgetting to tie off the leash before starting the downhill trek, but it
is no matter. That mutt knows where the bacon comes from. He is too smart to
run off, and even if he does, let him. He is too old and too fat to get very
far.

I look down, focusing again on the task at hand.
After some finagling, I get her body nestled into the soft pillow of poppies
without smashing too many; their golden tips, intensified by the light. Laying
her face up, I spread her arms and legs out as if she is about to make a snow
angel on a soft, pillowy snow bank.

I carefully lift her hair out from her hoodie,
cradling it lovingly in both hands. I inhale deeply.
Ahhh, peppermint.
I
fan her long locks out onto the flowers, a spray of chestnut on a golden field.
Gold. I notice another glimmer of gold around her neck. It is a fine chain,
wispy; perhaps a relic of straw spun to gold, in the land of ago.
Rumpelstiltskin!

Confused and enraptured by the glimmer of the
necklace, glowing golder-than-gold in this pool of sodium-vapor light, I
unclasp the necklace and lift it out of the golden puddle, up toward the moon’s
soft glow. The chain cools, exposing the dangling pendulum—a ring. The green
stone set into the ring’s center glints in the dim, soft light. A high school
class ring. A symbol of love and ownership. Jealousy churns my blood black as I
transfer the golden thread from her neck to mine. I will set her free. I will
take on the burden of her love, and mine.

My cold lips taste of blood, cracking as I
strain a smile. I bend over her body and place a soft, lingering kiss on her
cold lips.

The sprinklers come on as if on cue, sprinkling
water across her lying form, purifying her body.

Betsy’s memory will live on with this ring.
Until my dying day, I vow the ring will remain hanging over my heart.
For
Betsy.
In the veil of darkness, in the fog of dementia, I see only a symbol
of our unfailing love.

“For Betsy,” I say through clenched teeth,
tasting water, blood and tears, while clutching the ring in a balled fist
beside my pulsing jugular.

Satisfied with the outcome, I remove a blanket
from my backpack—the one I use to wrap Mr. Dimples whenever I carry him
along—smooth out the wrinkles with the length of my arm in harsh downward
strokes, and place it gently over her body. It is like she is only sleeping and
will wake up with the rising sun.

Casting a final, wistful smile at her peaceful
body lying in the bed of poppies, I picture my beautiful wife smiling up at me
from our garden: crouched over her flower bed, the golden sun gently kissing
her face and hair and casting her prominent ears in brilliant, translucent red;
the slight exertion painting her cheeks a lovely shade of pink. She is more
stunning than a sunset. More beautiful than a budding rose.

Now my lovely Betsy will not be so easily
forgotten, nor will the poppies she so dutifully tended. Everyone will see her
the way I see her every day. The way she is meant to be seen. Her beauty will
finally be noticed. My Betsy is surely looking upon me now, proud to know that
I saved her garden from destruction by the heat of summer and the school’s neglect.

Bending over her, I kiss her lips for the last
time and walk away, content.

At the top of the hill Mr. Dimples patiently
waits, sitting side saddle about fifteen feet away from the ramp, his tongue
lolling. I scoop him up and amble back home, shuffling my feet as I go.

The house is dark.

No lights were left on, inside or out. The
porch light is not on. I wasn’t planning on being gone so long. Normally the
walks end before twilight fades into a curtain of black, before spiders crawl
out of their nooks and crannies to cast transient webs.

Mr. Dimples is heaving heavily, his breath
irregular. The weight makes my arms and shoulders ache, but my mind is numb to
all sensations except the weight of the jewelry hanging from my clammy neck. I
no longer feel the damp chill of the night air. Summer is closing in, but the
night air still holds fast to the spring chill and rolling fog.

If I was asked about what happened in the last
hour, I probably couldn’t answer truthfully. I walked my dog and then came
home. “But a five hour walk isn’t normal,” they would counter. And I would
shrug my shoulders, eyes misty and lips thinned into a faint line of grief.
Silence would envelop me in guilt, for how could I explain the events that
transpired? I saw my wife, reached out to her, but she slipped away from me
again. I tried to hold onto her, but I couldn’t. They would be puzzled and say,
“Elizabeth has been dead for months.” And I would look to them with somber eyes
and say, “I know, my Betsy is dead.”

My stomach churns. Pain radiates up and down my
arms. It feels as if every bone in my body is shattered. Gasping for breath, I
trip over Mr. Dimples’ dangling leash and land hard on my left side, hitting
the maple wood floor with Mr. Dimples still wrapped in my arms. The rough
landing tears open my clotted lower lip once more. A trickle of fresh blood
lands on my shirt, then on the floor.

I lie dazed and disoriented. Mr. Dimples manages
to wiggle out from under my grasp. I can feel his slimy licks against my
temple. I can smell the strong scent of the orange floor polish I used earlier
that day, can hear the rumbling churn of the fridge’s compressor and the
erratic clang of the neighbor’s wind chime. God, I hate that wind chime. It is
just plain inconsiderate. Noise pollution. If I ever get up from this fall, the
first thing I am going to do is march right over and yank that damn chime out
of the stucco and toss it into the trash where it belongs. I should have done
it for my Betsy when she was alive. Why didn’t I? I am such a horrible husband.

Gritting my teeth through the pain, I feel a
mild sense of relief when I manage to wiggle my fingers and toes. My spine is
intact and for that I am grateful.

No one is around to hear me fall, so no one is
around to help me up or call for help. Still lying limp on the ground, I twist
my body so I can face Mr. Dimples. He doesn’t look good. He is lying on his
side, his black hair is damp with sweat and a yellowish film coats his eyes.
White foam bubbles around his mouth and tongue and the only movement seems to come
from his nose, desperately trying to inhale enough oxygen to keep him alive.

“Sorry, old friend. I guess we’re in the same
boat.” Fading into a stream of semi-consciousness, I hear myself mumble, “Just
hold on a little longer, I’ll get you—”