The House Next Door

Welcome to Ben’s bedroom.

I am a Navy SEAL, cautiously making my way through enemy territory. I step carefully to avoid minefields.

No. Wait.

I am actually your basic forty-four-year-old suburban mom, cautiously making my way through piles of clothing scattered on the floor. It all needs washing, but I am under strict orders never to pick up anything I find lying there. This, as a result of accidentally laundering various dollar bills, student IDs, and cell phones left in pockets that I forgot to check.

A foot from Ben’s trundle bed, I spot the corner of something leathery and brown peeking out from under an Imagine Dragons T-shirt. Sure enough, it’s the oboe case. I lift it up, shake off some Cheez Doodle dust, and carry it downstairs.

Ben frowns and says, “Dad said I didn’t have to go.”

“He said no such thing. Now go get your backpack. And where are your brother and sister? Joey! Caroline! It’s eight twenty-five.”

Caroline comes down the stairs, a vision of long blond hair and denim, holding her sixth-grade science project: a mock-up of the Mount St. Helens volcano, molded out of Play-Doh. She’s only eleven. But with her blond curls and deep blue eyes, someday soon she’s going to break some hearts.

Joey, age sixteen, appears on the top landing—high tops untied, hair gelled and standing straight up so that he resembles a hedgehog. He gallops down the stairs.

“Careful!” I say, as he zips past Caroline. “And would it kill you to carry that for your sister?”

“No! He’ll tip it!” she says, hoisting the volcano high above her head.

“Fine. Whatever. Can we just get going?”

Then the usual mad scramble—lunch bags grabbed, jackets pulled from hooks, protein bars shoved into pockets, the three of them pushing through the front door and arguing over who gets the front seat. Another morning gotten through. I take out my keys and am about to lock up.

And that’s when the phone rings.

“Maybe they’re calling to say it’s a snow day,” Ben says.

“In September?” I ask. But he has a point. When the phone rings that early in the morning, it’s generally someone from the school phone chain with news of a weather day, an early closing, or—these days—a bomb threat.

I go back and answer it.

“Hello,” says a male voice. “Is this Laura Sherman?” The voice is warm and friendly—two things I have no time for.

“Sorry. We’re on the do-not-call list,” I say.

I am about to hang up, when the voice gets more insistent.

“Laura, wait! Please. My name is Vince Kelso.”

“Look, if you’re running for office…”

“I’m your new neighbor. At thirty-seven Maple.”

Thirty-seven Maple. The house next door. A total eyesore. The house had been vacant for quite a while. We were hoping someone would buy it and tear it down. But my friend Darcy, whose house is on the other side, said people moved in last week. She went over with brownies and rang the bell. No one answered. She left the brownies and a note asking them to call if they needed anything.

She never heard from them.

“My gosh. I owe you an apology,” I say. “I’ve been meaning to stop by and bring over a plant or something and…”

“No problem,” he says. “But I was wondering if I could ask a favor.”

“Sure. I mean, I guess. Look, Mr. Kelso…”

“Vince,” he says. “Please. Call me Vince.”

“Vince. I don’t mean to be rude, but my kids are waiting in the car.”

I look out the window to see if this is true. It is. Joey is in the front seat of our dusty Volvo wagon, practicing his best Justin Bieber pout in the rearview mirror. Ben and Caroline are in the back, arguing. As I watch, Ben hits Caroline over the head with his lunch bag. The bag breaks.

“I don’t know a soul here. I was wondering if you could pick my son Vinny up after school today and take him to soccer practice.”

“Today? Gee,” I say, letting my eyes wander to our lawn. The grass needs cutting, and the garbagemen have left our big plastic garbage bins sprawled in the gutter. “Today’s a little tough. See, Thursday’s my busiest day. First there’s my daughter’s dance class. Then I have to get my son across town for his oboe lesson and…”

“I would never be asking,” he continues “but my wife is suddenly quite ill. They had to take her away…”

“Oh. Gosh…”

“And you’re my last hope.”

“Me?”

I hear him take a deep breath. Then he says, quietly, “Honey, I’m all alone here…and I could really use a friend.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Swell,” he says. Swell? Where is this guy from? The 1950s?

“I heard you were an angel,” he says, sweetly. “I guess they were right.”

Who’s “they”? I want to ask. Certainly no one in my immediate family.

But he has already hung up.

When I go back home to pick up Ned’s tie, the dust balls meet me at the door. I know they’ve missed me, because they follow me from room to room. To kill time, I vacuum the whole house. Then I write a few checks. Then I empty the dishwasher.

I can put it off no longer. I’ve got to deal with Harry.

Harry, the H of H & M Cleaners, is standing behind the counter as I walk through the door. As always, he’s frowning. He is a short, stubby man with deep lines in his face from intense scowling. Harry wears granny glasses that are always speckled with dirt.

“Hello,” I say, pulling the butter-stained tie out of my bag.

“You’ll have it Tuesday,” he answers, curling the tie around his hand and dropping it on the counter. That’s Harry’s way of saying Hello. Nice to see you again. How’s the family? Harry and my son Joey must be enrolled in the same charm school.

Harry punches a few numbers into his computer, prints a receipt, and peels it in half. I get the pink half.

“Can I have it tomorrow?”

“You want it tomorrow, you should have brought it in yesterday.”

“But it only got stained today.”

Harry shrugs. “So what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to have it tomorrow. Look,” I say. Then I point to a huge faded sign that has been hanging there since 1967. “It says IN BY TEN, OUT BY THREE.”

“Look yourself,” he says. “It’s ten fifteen.”

“But today’s only Thursday. What if I brought it in tomorrow before ten? Would I have it tomorrow by three?”

Harry shrugs. “I can’t promise anything. Tomorrow is the weekend.”

I get back in the car and slam the door. I’m annoyed at Harry, but just as annoyed at Ned, who insists I go to H & M Cleaners. I don’t understand a lot of things Ned insists on. Mouthwashes that burn. Sitting in the first row of a movie theater. Then again, when we were dating and I accidentally got pregnant with Joey, another guy might’ve walked. But Ned insisted on marrying me. You’ve got to love a guy like that.

And I do. Most of the time.

Once Joey was born, Ned insisted we move to the suburbs. Overnight, I kissed my half-assed acting career good-bye. Okay. So my life isn’t quite Shangri-la. But I can’t complain (although I do, all the time, in couples therapy). I have a lot of laughs with the kids. Ned is a pretty good father. Life could be a lot worse.

And when I read all these stories about husbands who cheat and lie and put their family in harm’s way—I know Ned would never do anything like that.

“Welcome to Best Buy, sir,” the young salesman in the red T-shirt says, smiling as he greets the customer at the door. “Can I help you find something?”

“No thanks,” Vince Kelso tells him, waving him off with his hand. He heads deeper into the store, toward the cell phone aisle.

Soon another salesman approaches—this one bald, with a bad case of acne.

“Just looking,” Vince tells him. Vince wanders around until he sees exactly what he’s looking for: a young salesgirl. She has long red hair and is standing by a cash register.

“I wonder if you could help me,” he asks her.

“Sure, sir,” she says. As he expected, she is sweet and perky—perhaps a trainee, determined to make a good impression.

“So many cell phones. What’s an old guy like me to do?” he says. He shrugs helplessly and looks at the plastic name tag on the young girl’s shirt. “Amber,” he adds.

Amber looks him over. He doesn’t seem that old—way younger than her father. She thinks he was probably cute as a teenager.

She gestures to the aisle behind them and begins the sales pitch they taught her in orientation. “Okay. So, a lot depends on how you’re going to use it. So, like, if you surf the internet, or do a lot of texting…”

“Now, honey,” he says, looking right into her eyes, leaning in so he’s a lot closer to her. “Do I look like a guy who texts a lot?”

She blushes a little. It’s sweet.

“No, sir—all I meant was…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one of those prepaid ones.”

Her face lights up. “Oh. Like a disposable? Sure. Those are at the end, over there. They’re pretty popular. The contract fees are much less, and you can…”

But he’s already shaking his head.

“I’m a pretty simple guy, Amber. Don’t even need a contract. I just want something I can use and then toss.”

“Oh!” Amber says. “So, like, a burner. Here’s the one most people go with.” She reaches for a black phone in a blister pack, hanging on a hook.

“I’ll tell you how good a saleswoman you are,” he says. “I’m gonna take six of ’em.” He pulls five more off the rack.

“Awesome,” she says, all smiles. It’s her biggest sale of the day. Maybe even her biggest sale ever. Vince turns one over, to see the price. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wallet. He peels off four fifty-dollar bills.

“I knew I could count on you, Amber,” he says. “Why, I bet, if I come back here in ten years, you’re gonna be running the place. Am I right?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she says. She looks away shyly.

“One last thing,” he says as he pockets the change. “I don’t know this brand. Where do I find the phone number?”

“It’s right inside,” Amber says, cracking open one of the blister cases with the cash register key. “Let me show you.” She pulls out an instruction manual. “Oh, look—you got a good one. 914-809-1414.”

“914-809-1414. I like that,” Vince says. “Easy to remember. Well, you take care now,” he adds. “And remember what I said. Don’t let me down.”

“No, sir,” she replies, smiling. “Have a nice day.”

He winks, puts the phones and the instruction manual in his briefcase, and leaves without taking the receipt.

The time: 2:30 p.m., outside Copain Woods School. And it’s starting. A snake pit of road rage as the SUVs line up, each driven by an impatient mom or dad, jockeying for position. I like to think of myself as an A-team player at this.

The minutes pass. Suddenly it’s three o’clock. A bell rings. Doors open. Out spills a gaggle of students, grades one through eight. They scatter in all directions in search of a familiar car. Horns honk. Drivers shout names. Caroline spots me quickly and waves. Ben appears behind her. I pull closer to the curb and they both jump in.

“Where’s Vinny?” I ask. My eyes search the crowd. Down at the end is a face I’ve never seen before. A boy leaning against the building. The kid wears a reddish-brown shirt the same color as the bricks.

“That’s him,” Ben says, pointing. Then he scoots down in his seat so none of the other middle school kids can see him. I pull closer to Vincent Kelso Junior and roll down the window.

“You must be Vinny,” I say. “I’m Mrs. Sherman. Hop in.”

Vinny walks slowly. Behind me, the honking grows louder.

“A little faster,” I say sweetly. He has some trouble opening the door. A nice kid, I think. But not too swift.