The Neighbor's Secret(3)

Another two knocks, insistent, harsh: I know you’re in there! An aggressive Gestapo knock.

Lena always wondered while reading Holocaust novels, which she did with some frequency: When the Nazis were rounding up people from the ghettos, did anyone just not answer?

Presumably breaking down a door would be nothing for the SS—they were capable of much worse—but did anyone in the ghetto successfully grab that small window of time to escape?

Lena would bet they didn’t. When faced with true evil, your mind tricked you into minimizing it. Work with it, it commanded, just go along.

At least, Lena’s mind commanded that; maybe other people had more admirable instincts.

A third series of knocks pounded on Lena’s door. In her mind, Rachel shook her head in alarm.

Don’t answer it.

The version of Rachel who lived in Lena’s mind was constantly judging Lena’s bad choices. It hadn’t always been that way between them, but unfortunately, before the night everything changed, Rachel had been going through an obnoxious stage. Lena had, back then, openly complained about how Rachel treated her, which she now regretted. Hearing the stories, Lena’s best friend Melanie had compared sixteen-year-old Rachel to a demanding hotel guest.

Lena decided to ignore the door, and turn back to Odile.

Had the little girl picnicking with her family heard the crack of the tree branch? Odile looked down and the little girl looked up into the foliage and yes, met Odile’s eye.

She had been caught.

Lena gasped—aloud—just as the bell rang twice in quick succession, sharp and accusatory.

This was why everyone answered when the Gestapo knocked: it was futile to do otherwise. The authorities never gave up. Lena had read with rapt attention about one fugitive who responded to the knocks of federal agents by darting into a back room, trying to hide under the bed.

Not an effective strategy, as it turned out.

She placed her finger in the middle of the book to hold her place, and carried it with her down the front hall.

When she opened the door, she tried to place the small woman on the other side of the door, who was immediately familiar. She stared at Lena from under the brim of a dark baseball hat, her lips pursed tightly in a not-quite-smile.

It was the Fierce Walker, the slight woman who thrust herself around the neighborhood loop at a breakneck pace in rain, shine, or snow, pumping her little arms and dragging behind her that muscular ugly taupe dog, who now stood next to her on Lena’s front step.

The dog had yellow eyes, which slanted as it regarded Lena with a sharp-toothed pant. Not a Nazi dog, Lena was pretty sure—they only used German shepherds—but hardly cuddly.

The Fierce Walker worked to maintain a brittle smile, because what else would Lena inspire?

Lena and Tim had picked the Cottonwood Estates neighborhood all those years before because of the natural beauty and the community—the bridge clubs, the cocktail hours, the tennis tournaments, the poker nights. Everyone in each other’s business was wonderful for social creatures like the Meekers!

But there was a dark side to having everyone in each other’s business that Lena hadn’t foreseen. For starters, the judgment. Even if Lena never heard it, she could feel it drift uphill with the wind: Poor, lonely Lena, rattling around in that big house.

The Fierce Walker had obviously heard the whispers of the wind. She chewed on her bottom lip and Lena could see, beneath the woman’s dark glasses, the darting movement of her eyes, from Lena to the ground and back to Lena.

To put her at ease, Lena waved her right hand in a friendly way. It was a regretfully awkward movement, given that Lena was still holding the book, the pages of which flapped ridiculously.

But it seemed to work: Fierce Walker inhaled and then sighed like a woman in love.

“That. Book,” she said, and clutched her heart.

Lena leaned closer, despite herself. “I just got to the part where Odile is in the tree.”

“With the family below her? I was dying.”

“Tell me it turns out okay.”

“I’m not going to spoil it for you. You’d never forgive me.”

The Fierce Walker frowned suddenly, like she’d received a silent reprimand from an unseen handler to remain on task. She pushed back her shoulders and jutted out her jaw.

“I’m Annie Perley and I live down the hill on Pinon Road,” she said.

“Lena Meeker,” Lena said even though Annie knew this, of course she did. Poor Lena Meeker. A cautionary tale. Tell your children.

Annie removed her sunglasses and folded them onto the collar of her shirt, revealing a cluster of tiny tattoos—an elephant, a star, a butterfly–on her inner wrist. She was younger than Lena had imagined, and freshly pretty, with smooth, pale skin and delicate features.

Lena smiled: she’d always appreciated beauty, and Annie had the comforting attractiveness of a stock photo model. But waves of intensity evaporated off her, and for a dizzying moment, Lena worried that Annie would start the sympathy stutter, So sorry, thoughts and prayers and I can’t even imagine.

“I’ve seen you trekking around the neighborhood,” Lena said to cut this off at the head. “And marvel at your willpower. I wish I had the drive in regards to exercise, but alas I never have. I have all the momentum to start any kind of fad, but it’s the follow-through that stumps me. The consistency. Too many bad habits, too ingrained, I guess. Do you do the entire loop every day?”