Good Neighbors(36)

Arlo stretched his arms in their direction. Their eyes roamed along his monster tattoos. “There’s probably still footage of me at Penn Station around two-thirty a.m. If not there, then the newsstand—I got a Coke and popcorn for the ride. So you can check that. You can check my getting off the train around three-fifteen.”

Gennet scribbled. Hudson didn’t take her eyes away.

“And what about the morning? Was Mrs. Wilde with you then?”

“I was showing a house. In Glen Head. But he never gets up before ten if he can help it.”

“Yeah, by the time I rolled out of bed, the kids were out playing. There might be footage there, too. The Cheons have a camera, I think. Dunno if it works since the sinkhole. Everything out on the block gets static.”

Hudson’s voice got scary soft. “You’re certain that you were never alone with Shelly Schroeder within the twenty-four hours of her death?”

“I swear.”

“He wasn’t,” Gertie said. Relief flooded her system. Proof. You can’t argue with proof.

“Were you ever alone with her?”

“Probably.”

“You can’t say for sure.”

“I don’t remember, specifically.”

“Do we need a lawyer?” Gertie asked.

Gennet stayed looking at his notebook.

“If we can clear this up, you won’t need a lawyer,” Hudson answered.

“Oh,” Gertie said.

“Now, were you ever alone with any of the other children in the neighborhood?” Hudson asked.

“No offense, but this is pretty scary. I think we need a lawyer,” Arlo answered.

“You’re not under arrest, sir,” Hudson said.

“Can we leave?” Gertie asked.

“Anytime,” Hudson answered. She moved back from the table, as if ready to walk out. “But we’d prefer you cleared this up.”

“Let me make a phone call,” Arlo said.

“You won’t need one if we clear this up.”

“He’s gonna make a phone call,” Gertie said.

Hudson nodded, as if she’d expected this answer all along. As if they’d have to be fools to do anything else.

They excused themselves and went into the waiting room. Arlo called Fred Atlas, but the connection had too much static. They couldn’t hear each other. He searched his contacts, looking for anyone important. He found coworkers and some old Brooklyn friends, none of whom knew any lawyers. He broke into a cold sweat and scrolled to Danny Lasson’s number. Danny’d been drums for Fred Savage’s Revenge, was now writing jingles in LA. He might know someone. But it was entirely possible that Danny hated him, for having broken up the band. Not possible. Probable.

“Do you know anyone important?” Arlo asked.

Gertie let out a hollow laugh. “Rhea’s about it.”



* * *




Arlo and Gertie were gone by the time Maple Street woke to a new day, Shelly Schroeder’s memorial service behind them. The mercury in their thermometers climbed past any temperature they’d ever before seen. Their air conditioners were no use. By ten that morning, the senior Benchleys had to catch a bus several blocks away to the local cooling center. That candy apple scent from the sinkhole cooked like chemicals in an oven. It permeated the air and the dirt and their clothing.

It appeared that the Wildes weren’t home. But they remembered that Gertie had made an offer weeks ago. The Slip ’N Slide was for everyone’s benefit. Carte blanche.

The people of Maple Street had no qualm with Gertie or her children, they reasoned. Their problem was only with Arlo. The day was swelteringly hot. With the pool closed, they longingly gazed at the yellow Slip ’N Slide. Some of the kids begged.

It was Cat Hestia who gave in, connecting the Walshes’ hose to the Wildes’ Slip ’N Slide, and unrolling it. Except for the Schroeder kids, who were in no mood for play, the Rat Pack got on their bathing suits. They slid across the Walshes’ lawn. They were somber at first, but pretty soon, they were howling with joy. They were joined by older siblings and even some adults. Like a rebirth in tar sands and dirt, even the adults went sliding.

In the light of day, amid yellow plastic and happy, communal laughter, the accusation against Arlo seemed outrageous. They decided that they were glad to be using the Slip ’N Slide. It was a way of including the Wildes, even in their absence. It was a way of moving the line just slightly away from Rhea’s side of things, and all the ugliness that it had always been her nature to spread.

When the Wildes returned from wherever they were at, the neighbors would speak to them. They would ask them directly about the accusations Shelly had reportedly lodged. They would allow Arlo the chance to defend himself.

When a brown Chevy sedan pulled in to the crescent, they took note. A man in a clean, unwilted three-piece suit approached, knocking door to door. Those parents not already there returned to their houses to answer. Yes, they said, we saw Arlo Wilde in just boxers, chasing Shelly that morning. Yes, his own kids were running away from him, too… Yes, they said, our children heard Shelly tell them in no uncertain terms: Arlo raped her, possibly that very morning.

At this, a detective named Bianchi asked to speak with their children, and so, one by one, they called them away from the Walsh lawn. Only, their children were filthy with tar. It covered their hands and cheeks and hair. They appeared anonymous and indistinguishable.