She never saw the headlights hurtling toward her.
Two Months Later
If you see something, say something. We’ve all heard that advice so many times that whenever we find a suspicious package where it shouldn’t be, or notice a stranger lurking in the neighborhood, we automatically pay attention. Certainly I do, especially since my daughter, Jane, is a cop, and my boyfriend, Vince, is a retired cop. I’ve heard all their horror stories and if I see something, you bet I’m going to say something. So it’s only second nature for me to keep an eye on my own neighborhood.
I live in the city of Revere, which strictly speaking isn’t in the city of Boston proper, but is more like Boston’s more affordable cousin to the north. Mine is a street of modest single-family homes tucked in side by side. Starter homes was what Frank （soon to be my ex-husband） called them when we moved here forty years ago, except that we never moved on to anything bigger. Neither did Agnes Kaminsky who still lives next door, or Glen Druckmeyer who died in the house across the street, which made it the opposite of a starter home for him. As the years went by, I watched families move in, then move out. The house to my right is once again vacant and for sale, waiting for the next family to cycle through. To my left lives Agnes, who used to be my best friend until I started dating Vince Korsak, which scandalized Agnes because my divorce isn’t final yet, and this made me a scarlet woman in her eyes. Even though Frank was the one who walked out of our marriage to be with another woman. A blonde. What really turned Agnes against me is the fact I enjoy myself so much now that Frank’s gone. I enjoy having a new man in my life and kissing him in my own backyard. What does Agnes think I’m supposed to do now that my husband’s left me? Drape myself in virtuous black and keep my legs crossed until everything down there dries up? She and I hardly talk anymore, but we don’t need to. I already know what she’s up to next door. The same things she’s always done: smoking her Virginia Slims, watching QVC, and overcooking her vegetables.
But that’s not for me to judge.
Across the street, starting at the corner, is the blue house owned by Larry and Lorelei Leopold, who’ve lived here for the past twenty or so years. Larry teaches English at the local high school, and while I can’t say we’re close, we do play Scrabble together every Thursday night so I’m well acquainted with the breadth of Larry’s vocabulary. Next to the Leopolds is the house where Glen Druckmeyer died, which used to be for rent. And next door to that, in the house directly across the street from me, lives Jonas, a sixty-two-year-old bachelor and former Navy SEAL who moved here six years ago. Lorelei recently invited Jonas to the Scrabble nights at my house, which should’ve been a group decision, but Jonas turned out to be an excellent addition. He always brings a bottle of Ecco Domani cabernet, he has a good vocabulary, and he doesn’t try to sneak in foreign words, which shouldn’t be allowed. Scrabble is, after all, an American game. I have to admit, he’s also a fine-looking fellow. Unfortunately he knows it, and he likes to mow his front lawn while shirtless, his chest puffed out, his biceps bulging. Naturally, I can’t help but watch him and he knows it. When he sees me at my window, he makes a point of waving to me, which makes Agnes Kaminsky think something’s going on between us, which isn’t true. I’m just everyone’s friendly neighbor, and if someone moves onto our street, I’m always the first at their door with a smile and zucchini bread. People appreciate that. They invite me into their homes, introduce their children, tell me where they’re from and what they do for a living. They ask me to recommend a plumber or a dentist. We exchange phone numbers and promises to get together soon. That’s how it’s been with all my neighbors.
Until the Greens moved in.
They are renting number 2533, the yellow house where Glen Druckmeyer died. The house has been vacant for a year and I’m glad someone is finally occupying it. It’s never good to have a house sit empty too long; it reflects on the entire street, giving it a whiff of undesirability.
On the day I see the Greens’ U-Haul truck pull up, I automatically pull a loaf of my famous zucchini bread out of the freezer. As it thaws, I stand on my porch, trying to glimpse the new neighbors. I see the husband first, as he steps out of the driver’s side: tall, blond, muscular. Not smiling. That’s the first detail that strikes me. When you arrive at your new home, shouldn’t you be smiling? Instead, he coolly surveys the neighborhood, head swiveling, eyes hidden by mirrored sunglasses.