The Good Neighbor

By Kimberly A. Bettes

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Kimberly A. Bettes

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1 Owen

I didn’t believe Jenson was a serial killer, hacking up the bodies and hauling them out of his house in black trash bags. Though his behavior was odd, and there were a lot of bags coming out of his house, and other residents of Hewitt Street thought he was, I didn’t believe it.

As I watched the old man struggle with his bags, I wondered why he just didn’t put them in a can at the curb like the rest of the world. What was in his garbage that required him to dispose of it wherever it was that he disposed of it? I had no idea where that was. I never followed him to see where he went once he loaded the heavy bags in his car.

The real puzzle was why he had two different garbage bags that he disposed of in two different ways. He had white trash bags, which he carried to the curb once a week and placed in a curbside trashcan.

Then, there were the black bags.

I sat on my front porch watching him, thinking maybe I should cross the street and help him. After all, he was in his sixties or seventies, and I was still a youthful thirty-five. It was the polite thing to do, and certainly the neighborly thing to do.

“What’s he doing?” someone asked. I turned to see Andy, the neighbor to my left, standing on his porch in his robe.

“Him? What are you doing? It’s almost noon.”

He tilted his red head down to look at his robe, as if seeing it for the first time. “You don’t think I rock this ensemble?” As he spoke, he put one foot on the porch railing, placing his elbow on his bent knee.

“Well, I do now that I see your shoes.”

“Like ‘em? Jill got ‘em for me.”

“Nice. They complement your...uh, carrots.”

“Don’t hate the bunny shoes. You’re jealous, I can tell.”

I laughed, turning my attention back to the trash bag-toting senior.

Andy, seeing where my attention went, asked, “What do you suppose is in that bag?” he asked, starting a conversation we’d had many times before.

“I don’t know, but it definitely looks heavy.”

“Aren’t they always heavy?”

Changing the subject, I asked, “Why are you still in your robe?” I didn’t take my eyes off the old man.

“I’m not still in my robe. I just got in my robe.”

“Ah, must be on the night shift this week,” I deduced.

“Yeah. I’ll be heading to bed soon. Just wanted to come out and see what was happening out here. I heard the moving truck.”

I turned my attention to the truck a few driveways down the street, where two men were carrying furniture into the house. Two children, a boy and a girl, were running around the yard. Occasionally, a young woman – presumably their mother – would step onto the porch and say something to them.

Andy said. “Think she’s the mom? Or maybe the older sister? She’s hot.” His smile broadened.

“Yeah, she’s alright. But is she hotter than, say, Jill?”

He lost his smile. “Of course not. My wife is the hottest woman on the planet,” he said in a robotic voice, then smiled.

“You’re crazy,” I said, laughing at him.

“I see Jenson finally got that bag in the trunk,” Andy said.

When I looked across the street, I saw the old man close the lid of the trunk. I could tell from the stiffness in his gait that he was in pain and having some difficulty getting around. It was probably from dragging around all those heavy bags. And age, of course. I watched as he got in his car, backed out slowly, and then drove away.

“Wonder where he goes,” Andy said, reading my mind. “One of these days, we should follow him. See what he does with those bags.” He saw the look I was giving him and added, “I’m just curious.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is nosy.”

“So you’ve never thought about it? You don’t wanna know what he’s got goin’ on over there?”

“Yeah, but I’d never follow him. Some states call that stalking. They even have laws against it.”

He laughed. “It isn’t stalking if you do it once, and just see where he goes. No big deal.”

I didn’t respond. In my mind, it was still stalking. It was still something that would make me feel guilty, as though I was doing something wrong. Even if it was just once.

“Well, think about it. Maybe one of these days, we’ll go sleuthing, see what’s up. But now, me and the bunnies here are going to turn in for the afternoon.”

“Yeah, go get some sleep. You’re losing your charm.”

“That’s impossible. And, Owen, try to keep it down out here. I’m tired of telling you. You’re the loudest neighbor on Hewitt Street.” He laughed, knowing that was the farthest thing from the truth, and then went inside.

Andy was my best friend, and I was lucky he lived next door. He and his wife Jill had taken great care of me when my life fell apart last year. I still hadn’t picked up all the pieces yet, but I was a lot closer than what I would’ve been if it hadn’t been for them. They’re the only ones who knew how bad things had been for me.

I reluctantly went inside the house. I couldn’t sit on the porch all day, even though I spent as much time on the porch as I could to avoid spending time alone in the house. There were too many memories, all of them best forgotten, that consumed me when I was inside the house. It just hurt too much to be in there.

However, there were things to do.

Once I’d finished my chores and ran my errands, I stopped off and grabbed some dinner. I wasn’t much of a cook, so I ate a lot of take out. A couple times a week, Jill made more than enough food just so she would have an excuse to feed me. This wasn’t one of those nights.

I sat on the porch, my feet propped up on what was supposed to be a table. It suited me better as a footstool. I held my burger in one hand and scooped fries from a bag on my lap with the other.

It was funny how I didn’t mind the silence of being alone when I was outside. Inside, I wanted to scream. Outside, I was fine. I knew the reason. I hated the reason. I struggled every second of every day to not think about the reason.

Inside reminded me of her. Inside is where she lived and loved me. I had no memories of her out here on the porch. But as soon as I walked through the door, I was engulfed with her smell, the sound of her laughter – though it was only in my mind, and everything she’d touched. Her things were still in the house where she’d left them. Things she’d bought or gifts she’d received. Everything was as it had been. Everywhere I looked, there was a reminder. A reminder of what had been, what I’d had, and what I’d lost.

At first, those reminders saved me. They comforted me. They were all I had to hold onto. Now, they taunted me. It was all I could do to let go. Holding on to the memories wasn’t saving me anymore. It was killing me.

It wasn’t a lie or an exaggeration to say Andy and Jill had taken great care of me. They were there from the beginning. They stood by my side as I fell apart. Andy stayed with me the first few days and nights. Jill kept me eating, even though it was an absolute job to do so, for both of us. They made me keep up my hygiene, even though there was no reason to. They made me get out of bed and quit wallowing in my pity. If they hadn’t, I’d have laid there, in the fetal position, and died.