Good Neighbors(87)

So many times, when the indignities had mounted—unkind kids teasing her for her hair, which she’d never combed because there’d been no combs in her house; fellow teachers at U-Dub who’d gossiped, calling her weird behind her back; Aileen Bloom, with her Tory Burch sweaters and perfectly coiffed blond hair, whose family had paved for her a perfect future. Her dad, especially her dad, who’d died because she hadn’t been around. He’d had no one to pretend for. She’d gone back to that house to clean it out and found it covered in bottles and vomit.

So many times, she’d felt the murk of it accumulate. In her dorm rooms, her studio apartment, her small office nook, she’d tried to go back in time, knowing it wasn’t possible, but hoping so very much. She’d wanted to loop through to the past and do it right that second time. She’d brush her stupid, wiry hair that she hated so much. She’d say all the right things when she got teased, turning it around so that everyone loved her. She’d laugh at bitter Aileen Bloom, knowing the woman was beneath her. She’d never enter that bathroom stall. She’d go back in time and save her dad. Make him better, and in doing so, save herself.

She’d come through clean and new.

Hand in her pocket, making sure that gun stayed safe, she limped. Sweating hard. Seeing almost nothing, except for Gertie’s terrified expression.

“Hey!” she shouted, and her voice sounded so angry. She tried again, “Gertie! Hey, girl!” she screamed.

A car pulled into the crescent. Fritz’s Mercedes. He stopped right in front of her and opened the door. His expression was all wrong, too. He wasn’t happy to see her, like he should have been after all she’d done for him. His expression was grim.

“Rhea,” he said. Rhee-a. “I need to talk to you.”

By now, she saw that Maple Street was watching. They came out in doorways or looked through windows. They looked at her like Gertie looked at her. Like Ella looked at her. Like FJ looked at her. Like Fritz looked at her. Like she was not a good person. She had done awful things.

She was disgusting.



* * *




Maple Street witnessed what happened next.

Fritz Schroeder got out of his car. He looked irritated and tired. Put upon. Later, they would learn that he’d spent the time away hiring a criminal lawyer, in case either the police department or the Wildes charged Rhea with perverting the course of justice. They’d learn that he’d intended to stand by his wife’s side, as he’d done in his limited way since the day he’d met her. But they didn’t know that yet. All they saw right then was his apparent disdain.

Perhaps Rhea’d been thinking about it, planning it. Gertie liked to think not. She liked to think it was a fluke. A toss of coin that could have ended in a much better way. Hand in pocket, Rhea veered. Before she ever pulled her hand back out, Gertie knew beyond a doubt.

The distance was close.

Rhea pointed, just like all those years ago with her dad at the Calverton Shooting Range. Fritz saw. Despite that, he kept coming. They met in front of their house. 118 Maple Street. Close enough to touch. Fritz didn’t try to stop her.

She was thinking about the divorce. How he’d take the kids. But they needed her. They needed someone who cared about playdates and whether their clothes were stained. They needed someone who cheered at soccer and lacrosse and who went over their spelling tests. They wouldn’t have any of that. He’d ruin them.

She pushed the barrel of the gun up against his chest. Those watching would imagine meaning in what Fritz did next. They would define it as perfect trust, or as disbelief, or even as true love. This man had placed his life in her hands since the day he’d met her.

“Rhee-a,” Fritz said. He moved the butt of the gun just left, so it was over his heart.

She pulled the trigger.

He fell back. Went down. It happened so fast that it didn’t feel real. Her ears rang. There was blood. Or water. Or perhaps the dense splatter from a black hole. She knew then that she had control over this. These people, her children and husband and everyone she’d ever loved, they belonged to her. With her mind, she kept them safe.

The sound still ringing, her hands hot, she heard her son, FJ, scream, “Mom! No!”

The boy was in the middle of the street, his eyes bloodshot. An autopsy would show his blood alcohol content at .3 percent, with lesions in his brain from chronic abuse. Like Rhea’s father, he’d been born with alcohol-induced epilepsy.

Rhea pointed. He wobbled too much to run. Before he was able to get inside 118 Maple Street, she fired. A miss. He lurched, unable, somehow, to go inside. He headed for another house (which house?), but couldn’t decide. She fired again. It lodged in his neck and he went down, too.

The next one. For this to work, she needed them all. Ella was frozen on the Wildes’ stoop next to Julia. Rhea pointed and shot. A miss. The second was perfect. Straight through Julia’s protective hand, to Ella’s head.

Belly heavy and with a sore back, Gertie ran, placing her body between Julia and Rhea. Rhea charged to intercept her, loping and running on one good leg and one useless one. Panting, like two embattled animals, they deadlocked.

For the first time, Rhea saw Gertie for what she was. She was a woman and a mother and a wife and a mediocre Realtor. She was nervous and damaged and she dressed trashy. She was an ordinary slob, who had never offered salvation. She was a friend. Like the ocean before a tsunami hits, the murk receded and everything became clear.