Good Neighbors(41)

They stood nervously, waiting for the receptionist behind the intake desk to print the report. The office was surprisingly empty. Just a few plainclothes police worked at their desks, leaving another twenty desks empty.

Gertie’s knees were weak. “I don’t think I want to know what that report says.”

But the receptionist was done by then. She handed the report to Arlo. Witnesses included Rhea Schroeder; Ella Schroeder; Nikita Kaur; Sam Singh; Linda, Dominick, Mark, and Michael Ottomanelli; Lainee Hestia; Steven Ponti; and Margie Walsh. The list of witnesses in Arlo’s defense was much shorter: Peter Benchley.



* * *




Gertie and Arlo got into their Passat. Halfway to Maple Street, he pulled over. Gertie opened the door and vomited.

Shaken, they got back in and continued home. They’d only been gone for a day, but in that time, their whole world had changed.

Sunday night on Maple Street. Cars were parked in driveways, dining room curtains opened for late-day dinner light. But they weren’t playing on the trampoline or barbequing burgers, like they ordinarily would have done on a weekend evening. No, they were inside, looking out. Gertie could see faces peeking from windows. Weirdest and most unsettling of all, they’d set up the Slip ’N Slide. It looked like they’d only recently, hastily, turned off the water and scattered. The Wildes’ entire side lawn was ruined. Just mud and viscous oil. Not a blade left of grass.

No one waved at the Wildes as they parked and started down the sidewalk. They didn’t walk away from their windows, either. They watched.

When the Wildes retrieved their children from Fred and Bethany Atlas, they expressed their deep gratitude and stanched their tears. Fred said he was still looking for a lawyer. It was tricky. People don’t like to be associated with that kind of accusation, and when they do, they charge a lot. Arlo should be prepared for photographers. This could leak to the tabloids.

“If we’re detained again, could you take the kids? Otherwise, I’m worried it’s foster care,” Gertie asked.

“Sure!” Bethany called from the couch. “We love them so much!”

Fred walked them to the door, his voice lowered. The kids walked ahead down the lawn. “She’s back in the hospital tomorrow,” he whispered. “I’ll be at work or with her. They say we’ll know right away if it works. This targeted gene therapy. A week or a month, they say.”

Arlo and Gertie stayed frozen on the stoop.

“I want to help you,” Fred said. “But…”

Arlo walked back up the steps. Clapped his friend on the back, and when he saw that was welcome, he hugged him. Fred shook with quiet crying. Arlo held him. The distraction from his own burden was a relief. “I didn’t even tell you I’m sorry about your dog. I’m sorry about your dog, Fred… You take care of your wife. Don’t worry about another fucking thing.”

“We’re here if you need us, Fred,” Gertie said. “Anything. Both of you. I swear to God, I mean that.”



* * *




After Fred shut the door, they caught up to their kids. Julia squeezed her dad, hard. Larry took both their hands and walked between them, the way he liked to do when he was scared. Seeing her good, kind children in full flesh, a certainty came to Gertie Wilde: her husband was innocent.

Her relief was great, and so was her fury. She hated Rhea Schroeder more than she’d hated anyone in her life.

Rhea was sitting out front with Linda Ottomanelli and a glass of red wine, the half-filled bottle between them. She was still wearing yesterday’s black linen suit. Bitumen stretched out from the hole now in thick seams. It crossed under the sidewalk pavement and up again, daubing the yards.

“Gert,” Arlo barked in warning.

Gertie walked up 118’s wide, well-kempt slate. Rhea and Linda raised their eyes. Gertie’s speed increased. She stood before them. Linda looked away. Rhea did not. Between them was the note the Wildes had written, only someone had added to it and drawn over the words with the kind of red pen teachers use to grade papers:

MURDERING RAPING

Thinking of you.

FUCK

—The Wildes



There’s this thing that happens to people who’ve grown up with violence. It changes their hardwiring. They’re just slightly a different species, built more for survival than for social networking. They don’t react to threats like regular civilians. They do extremes. They’re too docile over small things but they go apeshit over the big stuff. In other words, they’re prone to violence.

Gertie approached Rhea now, when a shrewd person would have walked away, licked wounds, and if she was crafty, mounted a covert counterattack. But a switch inside Gertie had flipped. There wasn’t any going back.

“Fuck you, Rhea Schroeder. You beat that child and we both know it,” Gertie shouted. “I should have called the cops on you months ago.”

Linda gasped.

Gertie reared. With an awkwardly slow launch, she punched the concavity between Rhea’s chest and her shoulder. At first, Rhea did not fall back. The impact wasn’t great enough. But after a second, she pretended that it was, and slumped.

The people of Maple Street saw this. The adults and the teenagers and the Rat Pack children, even Julia and Larry.

Gertie didn’t wait for retaliation. She walked around the Schroeder house and yanked the Slip ’N Slide that was drying there, dragging it back to her own house. Her pretty dress that she’d worn for Shelly’s homespun funeral got mucked with dirt and oil. She stomped into her house, a public tantrum, leaving Julia and Larry and Arlo behind.