The Neighbors (18 page)

Finally, she cleared her throat and replied. “No.”

She watched Red’s hope dwindle, then disappear completely as her answer sank in.

Their first date was typical: they went for dinner and drinks, watched
Apocalypse Now
—Red loved it, while Harlow couldn’t have been more bored—and ended up at Red’s place a few minutes past ten. He lived in a crappy little apartment. It wasn’t difficult to see that the pizza place was Red’s only source of income. But despite his lack of funds, he had splurged on a fancy joint for dinner—giant T-bone steaks with baked potatoes and dessert; he’d paid for the movie and popcorn, and he couldn’t have looked happier with the expense.

Regardless of his footing the bill, Harlow was sure it would be the same story as soon as they got to his place. He’d pour a few cocktails, put on a bad record he thought got girls in the mood, and then he’d proceed to bed her. And that was exactly what Harlow wanted, because despite the fact that the things her daddy had done to her once terrified her, she now found that wink of fear an irresistible high. It was just a matter of talking Red into it. Some boys needed to be smooth-talked into tying
down their date, but Red was smitten by her; he wouldn’t need much convincing.

Just as she expected, Red headed toward the stereo as soon as they were inside. He put on some Rolling Stones, then walked over to his kitchenette and pulled a half-empty bottle of gin from an overhead cabinet. Harlow hated this part—telling them what she wanted. It was so graceless, but all the guys before Red had shrugged and fallen into the act without so much as a complaint. She’d fight them first, trying to get away as they held her down. Once that part was over, all they had to do was whisper into her ear,
Don’t tell your mother.

Meeting him in the kitchen, she cornered him between the wall and the refrigerator. With her mouth on his neck, she slid her hands down his chest, freeing the buttons of his shirt, working her way down to his belt. She’d taken him by surprise; he precariously held a glass of gin in one hand, the other wrapped around the handle of the refrigerator as if hanging on for dear life. He was older than Harlow by a couple of years, but he radiated an odd sense of virtue, so wide-eyed and love-struck during their date that Harlow had nearly asked whether he was a virgin, but she resisted the temptation, not wanting to scare him off.

Plucking the glass of gin from his grasp, she bit her bottom lip and unbuckled his belt as Red breathed heavily, seemingly shocked that this was all happening so fast. And that was when Harlow took the opportunity to make her request.

Red refused.

He blinked as her fingers danced across his chest, her mouth against his ear, then shook his head, disbelieving, as though he didn’t know what to make of the girl he had brought home. As soon as Harlow saw that look, she flushed with embarrassment and snatched up her bag, ready to flee, but Red stopped her. He blocked the door, refusing to step aside when she tried to push him out of the way. He caught her wrists, and that was when she burst into tears.

That night, Harlow told him everything. She told him about her father sneaking into her bedroom, about how her mother had been raped and killed. She even told him about Danny Wilson, so tired of keeping that secret buried. She was sick, crazy; maybe Red would turn her in and put her out of her misery.

He didn’t.

Red had been stunned, but rather than calling the police, he wrapped his arms around her and let her cry. And then he leaned in and whispered, “He was going to hurt you. You’re not a bad person.”

And as if by magic, the hard shell of Harlow’s guilt cracked apart and fell away.

They fell asleep on his bed, all of her secrets spilled between them. When she woke up the next morning and saw that he was still there, she knew she had to have him forever. He was the only person in the world who understood her. He was the only person who could make her whole again.

Harlow and Red were married in a private ceremony two months later.

Reggie Beaumont wasn’t in attendance.

He died in an unexplained house fire a week before their union.

D
rew couldn’t sleep. He lay on his mattress, staring out the window at the Wards’ house, trying to place the ache that had crawled into his heart. It was still early and the Wards’ lights burned bright. He could just make out the outline of furniture through the sheer white curtains. The muffled sounds of Mickey watching TV slithered beneath his bedroom door—lots of shooting and explosions and screaming, as though those sounds were coming from the house next door and not the television in the living room.

Rolling over, Andrew put the fairy-tale house to his back. It was all he’d seen, all he’d thought about for the last few days. He had replaced his old life with a white picket fence, with pretty curtains and home-cooked meals. But now, after what had happened with Red over a plate of pot roast, he couldn’t deny what he’d left behind. Stepping out of a black-and-white world and into a Technicolor fantasy was easy; leaving the brilliant colors of the rainbow behind to return to a monochromatic life—that was next to impossible. But Dorothy had been able to do it, and maybe she was right: Maybe there really was no place like home.

After a few minutes of staring at the wall, he sat up, crept across the bed, and grabbed his cell phone from atop his dresser. The room lit up in cold blue as he scrolled through his contacts, stopping on an entry that simply read “Home.”

Glancing out the window again, he hesitated, almost felt like he was betraying Harlow in some unspoken way. He had allowed her to creep into the corners of his heart, filling the spaces his own mother had left empty and dark. And yet he still missed his mom. Despite her abundance of shortcomings, he wanted to hear her voice.

Pulling in a steadying breath, he connected the call. He was ready to hang up after five rings, but just as he pulled the phone away from his ear, Julie Morrison’s voice drifted toward him from the other end of the line. “Hello?...Drew, is that you?” she said, as if she’d been waiting for his call.

He couldn’t help but smile.

“Hey,” he said. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Drew...I know you’re angry with me,” she said. “I’ve been selfish. It’s really...” she paused. “Well, it’s unforgivable. I’m ashamed of myself.”

Andrew hesitated.

“I’m glad you called,” she pushed on into the silence. “I think I’ve dialed your phone a thousand times since you left.” His bottom lip quivered when she exhaled a weak laugh. “I always hung up before punching in the last number. Silly,” she murmured. “But I’ve missed you.”

It was all Andrew needed to hear. Suddenly, it was as though their blowup never happened. She told him she was proud of him for being out on his own, that she was happy for him, and that maybe, if she could manage it, she’d be able to visit his new home sometime soon. “I want to see what your life is like now, an independent young man...”

Listening to her marvel over how he had gotten a job at the Wards’, how he had bought all his furniture at a secondhand
store, he could almost see his mom, young and vibrant with her hair done up in curls, wearing her favorite red dress with the white polka dots—the dress she used to wear nearly every Sunday when they went to church. That dress reminded him of the way she sang, louder than anyone else, squeezing his little hand in hers as she bellowed out hymns. Being quiet throughout the entire sermon would win him a trip to the candy shop, where he’d buy a big sack of cherry sours, ones that matched the color of her dress.

Somehow, her being happy for him erased all her wrongs. Drew’s bitterness melted away, and all that was left was a loving mom; not as perfect as Harlow, but at least she was his.

Arriving at the Wards’ place bright and early the next day, Drew just about bounced as he walked, a big smile plastered across his face.

Red noticed the shift in his mood right away, and a pang of annoyance coiled inside his chest. He had hoped that the awkwardness of dinner the night before would have kept that boy from coming back. Red had a limit, and Andy had crossed that boundary, whether he knew it or not.

“Good morning,” Drew greeted him.

“Morning,” Red muttered. He wasn’t in the mood to talk. Instead of chatting, he gathered supplies for Andrew’s next task. He noticed the boy eyeing his glossy black Cadillac, the Kansas plates reading
YESLORD
in tall block letters. Harlow had special-ordered it from the state MVD. It matched her mother’s license plate from Oklahoma—a tribute to the late Bridget Beaumont. When Red turned from his workbench to face his employee, he noticed him squinting at the plate a little too thoughtfully for Red’s taste. The kid blinked when Red tapped the tip of his screwdriver against a can of white paint. With Drew zoned out the way
he was, it was the perfect opportunity to lay down the law, to tell him to keep his eyes to himself. Red had seen him looking down his wife’s blouse the night before. But instead, Red decided to play it cool, motioning for Andrew to follow him around the side of the house.

Walking to the side yard with the kid behind him, Red contemplated what Harlow would do if he grabbed Drew by his ears and snapped his neck. Red could just as easily pay Mickey a visit too; shoot that white-haired idiot with the gun he knew Harlow kept in her purse and leave him there for her to find. She’d run to Mickey for help with Drew’s body, most likely in a fit of genuine tears—but Mickey would be dead, and the bitch would have to bury her darling Andy with her own two hands.

But Red wasn’t like his wife. He was merely an observer, watching Harlow hunt, claiming that it was the only thing that kept her sane. After their first date and her confession, she had begged him to help her, begged him to save her from herself. And for a while she convinced Red that his love had cured her; it had kept her hands clean for more than two decades.

Red turned to Drew, pointed out which window trim needed to be repainted white, but Drew was far from focused. Irritated, Red wagged a paintbrush in front of Andrew’s face.

“Did you get all that?” he asked, motioning to the window trim. “You have to tape off the glass before you paint,” he reminded him, then paused, brow furrowed. “You look distracted. Are you sure you’re up for this?”

Drew took the paintbrush from Red and shook his head with a smile. “I’m fine,” he assured. “Just thinking. I’ve got it. Tape off the glass.”

Red looked unsure, but he stepped away anyway, leaving Andrew in the yard with a bucket of white paint at his feet.

Harlow was inside, chopping vegetables for a lunch salad. She watched Red carefully as he explained the job to Drew beyond the window. That man was on probation as far as she was concerned.

When she noticed Red’s aggravation as he stepped away from Andrew, the muscles of her jaw clenched. Stepping away from the kitchen counter, her heels clicking against the floor, she stood at the mouth of the living room, waiting for the screen door to slap against the jamb. She clutched a wet tomato in her left hand, a large butcher knife in her right, peering at her husband when he came inside.

“Salad?” Red asked, feigning casualness, acting as though the previous evening’s discourse hadn’t happened. It was just like him to sweep things he didn’t want to deal with under the rug. He was a mouse, too scared to do a damn thing, just like he was too scared to let her go after one measly date. She had had an excuse to fall for him—he had sincerely cared—but Red could have just as easily thrown his hands up and looked for another girl.