Good Neighbors

“I’m not!” Gertie said. “You’re tag-teaming me!”

“Julia!” Arlo shouted. Everybody got quiet. Julia sniffled. Shook. Hid her face to hide the tears. “Do you believe this shit you’re telling us to be true?” Arlo asked.

Julia nodded, crying hard like you do when you’ve been yelled at, face hidden.

Gertie looked out the window, to the empty crescent. She followed the eddies of oil to the hole with her eyes. They reflected the sun; a smeared rainbow humbled by gravity to the earth, made of blue and black and red.

“And your instincts tell you this. You trust those instincts,” Arlo said, voice modulated now.

Julia nodded. “Her mom hurt her when no one else was around. She hid it from me. She kept it a secret because she thought it was something to be embarrassed about. But she couldn’t take it anymore. Her mom got meaner. So she told.” Then she pressed her hands to the small of her back and worked upward between her shoulder blades. “She didn’t do it to herself. She couldn’t have reached.”

Gertie kept her eyes on the hole. She felt them wet. Felt her whole self break apart. “Rhea did keep Shelly close, didn’t she? Never gave her an inch of herself. Cheerie used to keep me close.”

Arlo’s voice was thick, his body tense. “Let’s not talk about Cheerie.”

“No,” she said. “Nobody wants to hear about Cheerie… I think… I think it’s true. I think she tried to tell me once. Rhea. But I didn’t understand.”

Julia burst into tears. “She was my friend. I loved her and now she’s dead.”

“I know,” Gertie said.

Julia came to Gertie. Gertie held her off. She’d never been a hugger, especially not in moments of panic. But Julia wouldn’t be denied. She pushed Gertie’s arms aside, rested against her breast. Gertie held her, heart beating fast, thoughts broken and flying.

“If I’d known,” Arlo whispered. His tenseness had resolved into something softer and more honest.

“We could have helped her,” Julia muttered.

“Maybe. But an accident happened,” Arlo said. “She fell. Not even her mom did that.”

“She loved you,” Gertie said. “And you loved her.”

Julia’s expression balled tight, tears still falling. “There wasn’t anybody I liked talking to more, when she wasn’t being mean. We didn’t even have to talk. We just knew each other. But she was hiding something inside. She was hurting. And what if she wakes up down there, all alone? What if she thinks I abandoned her?”

“It’s not your fault,” they all said, together, even Larry. “It’s not your fault,” they repeated.

She slackened like a drugged calf, resting her head on Gertie’s breast. Larry petted her frizzy hair. With his skinny, monster-tattooed arms, Arlo leaned down and encircled his family, trying but not quite able to encompass the entirety of them.

Very softly, Julia said, “One day I’ll save kids. All the kids.”

Yes, they said, and they knew she meant it. They knew, when she grew up, that this would happen because of Shelly. Of course you will.

In the end, Julia asked that her hair be cut short just like Shelly had done. They did this, and braided the eighteen wild, curly inches with elastic ponytail holders, then added this to the cigar box. Each hammered a nail into one of the box’s corners to close it. Then they showered and dressed in their summer best. Not black, but pretty florals for the girls, the Hawaiian shirt for Arlo (cleaned now of blood), and Larry’s typical green. They discussed the backyard, but knew where they’d eventually agree upon.

They walked out of their house and into Sterling Park. They passed the orange cones and tape. The crew, having stopped coming on weekends, were all gone. A new, thicker slab covered the hole. They knelt at the edge. Arlo pried loose six rivets to lift a corner.

Sweet fumes wafted up. Together, they dropped the box down. It fell for so long they didn’t hear the splash of its landing.

Arlo hammered each rivet back into place. Tested, to make sure the slab was solid again. They walked back home feeling lighter. Julia picked some hydrangeas from a bush in Sterling Park and tied them with a leaf. Gertie pulled a pen from her purse and wrote a note on her Century 21 business card:

Thinking of you.

—The Wildes



They deposited this on the Schroeders’ front porch. Then they walked to their house, ready to recover from so much.

They slept deep and dreamless that night, the kids in bed with the grown-ups, and everyone tucked close. In the morning, there was coffee and sugar cereal and extra harmonicas. There was the optimism of a new day. But then their front bell rang. They opened the door to the police.





Sunday, July 25


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