Neighborly(88)

“Did someone really leave you notes?” he asks.

“They really did. But I probably blew them out of proportion. They were just like, ‘Don’t park your car in my spot.’”

“But they were anonymous?”

I nod.

“Must have been Gladys, then.”

“With Sadie being sick and with Oliver next to Stone, I just started to dabble in some conspiracy theories.”

He lets out a delighted laugh. “That must be it!” Then he lowers his voice and leans in. “No one else could have done it except for Gladys. I know everything that goes on around here. No one can keep a secret. Not from me, anyway.” He sounds a little bit territorial and a little bit proud. “We’re good people on this block. Flawed, sure. And quirky, what with the openness and all, but good.”

“I kind of wish you’d been the one to come to the hospital instead of June,” I say. “You would have made me laugh.” I have the sense that his currency is flattery.

“I wish I could have gone, too. But honestly, I can’t stand those places. I smell that disinfectant, and I’m reminded of the super-germs they’re trying to kill. So when June volunteered, I was relieved.” There’s a funny quality to him, like guilt with some additive I can’t quite place.

“She did a good job, though,” I say.

He nods, and that’s all.

In my admittedly limited interactions with him, Brandon never just nods.

“You don’t like June?” I ask.

“It’s not that. It’s just . . .” He leans in and lowers his voice again. “I think her husband told her some things about me that weren’t true, and she believed them, and it’s never been the same between us.”

“What kind of things?”

He looks left and right exaggeratedly, like the shifty eyes of a picture in an old episode of Scooby-Doo. “He wanted to be dominated, but only by a man. He was into it, but he made it sound to her like I was somehow forcing myself on him.” Brandon makes a face. “Some people just don’t want to own what they’re into. It doesn’t fit with their image of themselves. Sexuality can be a messy, ugly thing, and I’m OK with that. But he definitely wasn’t.”

“I hear he wasn’t such a great guy.”

“Really? June said that?”

“No. Raquel said it.”

“I was hoping June was finally ready to admit it and file for divorce. They’ve been separated for years now. She deserves better.” It’s clearly the party line. He looks over my shoulder, and then he does this theatrical sort of ducking down, like he’s hiding behind me. “Nils again,” he explains.

“What?”

“Nils drives around just to get a look at me. He’s like this lovesick puppy. I should never have gotten involved with him. I had a suspicion he was closeted.”

“Nils? As in, Nils and Ilsa?”

“As in, the people who used to live in your house. I was so glad when Ilsa insisted they move away. At least now it takes him some work to stalk me. Before, it was way too easy. He’d just walk out his front door and ta-da!”

I’m trying to think how to get the conversation back on track, back to June, when he says he really needs to go.

“Don’t tell June I said anything about her husband, OK?” he says.

“I won’t. Thanks for signing the petition.”

“Anytime. Love to Sadie!”

So June had a bad marriage, to a bad man, who she tries to believe is good. She may have a sugar daddy, and I know she has a daughter who’s out of control. But what does any of that have to do with me?

Tennyson answers her door next, her hair unkempt, in a robe loosely belted over a black satin negligee. “Vic goes to the gym at the ass-crack of dawn every day, but I know he’d want to sign this,” she says. “Come back in an hour?” She writes her name and scribbles an absolutely unreadable signature beside it. Then she hands me the clipboard with a huge smile. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get down to business.” I look at her nervously. “Is Sadie really and totally better? Please say yes!”

I relax and smile. “Yes. She just needs to drink lots of milk and get lots of sleep, but it’s a full recovery.”

“I can’t wait to see her. Can you take her out of the house yet? Like, could you bring her over to the park today? It’d be great to catch up.”

“Not quite yet, but I’ll let you know.”

“So someone’s harassing you?” she says conversationally. “Who do you think it is?”

Of the three neighbor reactions to my post, this one seems strangest. Raquel assumed I was having some sort of a breakdown, Brandon assumed it was Gladys, but Tennyson seems to find it not only plausible but a general topic for conjecture. It’s like she was completely oblivious to the panicked tone of the post—a woman with her back against the wall, coming out swinging.

For the first time, it occurs to me: Tennyson is sort of narcissistic. She doesn’t seem to feel what other people feel. She’s not malicious; she’s simply unaware. She’s got her spreadsheet, and the block orbits around her, and she’s perfectly happy.

“I don’t know who it is,” I say. “That’s why I put the post up. Do you have any ideas?”