Neighborly(8)

I hadn’t noticed June at the party earlier, but I’d seen her contribution: a few store-bought pies. People were joking about it, but in a nice way, like it was one of June’s charming peccadilloes.

I take another step toward my house.

“You’re not leaving already, are you?” Gina asks.

“Just going inside for a while,” I say. “Sadie needs to eat.”

“Don’t worry,” Tennyson sing-songs, “you can just whip ’em out!”

I feel a twinge of shame, caught red-handed. I’m not able to breastfeed. Since Sadie never latched, it’s pumping only. I’m not hiding my boobs; I’m hiding the fact that Sadie won’t drink from them, which sometimes still feels (irrationally, I know) like a kind of rejection.

I force a laugh. “I’m going to keep some things private just a little while longer.”

“There are no secrets in this neighborhood!” Tennyson winks. I realize she’s past tipsy, and maybe it’s true that there are no secrets, because she’s not trying to hide her drunkenness at all.

“See you soon,” I tell her and then walk up the porch steps.

That’s when I notice the rectangle of cardboard.

It’s from the boxes of our new dining room chairs, with their disappointingly wobbly legs, like a colt that hasn’t yet matured. I thought I’d gotten rid of all that cardboard yesterday.

But no, a piece of it is right here, in front of our door, positioned like a welcome mat:

THAT WASN’T VERY NEIGHBORLY OF YOU.





CHAPTER 2

What does that mean? What wasn’t neighborly?

There’s no one I can ask. The note is anonymous.

I shut the front door behind me and lock it, holding Sadie tight. From where I’m standing, I can take in the whole first floor. The living room yields to the dining room, with a corner office nook, and then on through the kitchen, where a door leads to the backyard. We painted every room a different bright color, because this will be a happy place: a yellow kitchen, a red dining room, a blue office nook, a green bedroom for Doug and me, and a purple nursery for Sadie. It’s my tiny home. Our tiny home.

Happy is the life we’re meant to have here, in this neighborhood. And we will, that note notwithstanding.

Someone was probably just drunk; that’s all it was. Or kids were playing a prank. Next, they’ll toilet paper our house. It’s just innocent, throwback fun.

I make my way into the kitchen to get Sadie’s bottle from the fridge. In my preoccupation, I slam my shin into a heavy box. That’s something they don’t highlight on THN, all the bumps and bruises you’ll incur while adjusting to your Lilliputian house. Inside the box is my new desk, still awaiting assembly, the one with almost impossibly small dimensions that we bought to fit into my undersize office nook. I wish Doug would hurry up and get this house done. I wish he were here, right now, to give me a hug and tell me we have a block full of awesome neighbors and not to let some silly note give me any pause.

In the living room, there are two striped love seats facing each other because we couldn’t fit sofas, and I take a seat on the one facing the door. I cuddle Sadie as she sucks hungrily, obliviously, at her bottle. Some Styrofoam has already found its way onto my skirt, and I try to bat it away, but it clings resolutely.

While Doug and I scraped together enough money to buy essentials like love seats, we had to skimp on some other things. Our house is full of particleboard furniture with nearly impenetrable instructions and bolts, nuts, and screws that get everywhere. Doug’s job is building, and mine is trash removal. I scurry in his wake, picking up plastic wrapping, cardboard, and of course that infernal Styrofoam.

I can’t wait until this house is fully assembled, until I can sink into the love seat with Sadie and croon in her ear, “We’re home, little one.” That’s what keeps me up at night, fixating on things like the replacement part that’s in transit to finish Sadie’s dresser. So much depends on delivery schedules and on Doug’s marginal building skills. As handy as he’s not, I’m worse. He’s also a procrastinator. I’ve definitely got my character flaws, but that’s not among them.

On an early date, Doug and I asked each other questions that we had to answer immediately, automatically, with no time to craft an appealing persona. It went like this:

HIM: What are you best at?

ME: Making to-do lists and knocking them out.

HIM: What are you worst at?

ME: Relaxing. What are you best at?

HIM: Reading people and giving them what they want.

ME: What are you worst at?

HIM: Getting anything done before the eleventh hour.

He wasn’t kidding.

It’s not that I enjoy being in constant motion; it’s that what I want most is to relax, and I can’t allow myself relaxation until everything’s done.

Since Sadie, everything can never be done. In a sense, it’s my worst nightmare, this Sisyphean life, yet she offers the greatest reward. She forces me to sit, and rock her, and smell her hair, and for that I am profoundly grateful.

The cheap metal blinds are shut, and the house is cool. I watch Sadie’s eyelids droop. I love when she falls asleep on the bottle, in my arms. It’s the most complete happiness I’ve ever felt. Sadie in my arms is incredibly soporific. I begin to drift away.