Ray Garton - The New Neighbor

Robby heard the Cuisinart whir to life in the kitchen.

On the radio, a local chiropractor was listing the many benefits of making an appointment with him today.

The bedroom door burst open suddenly and Robby nearly fell off the bed as his dad rushed in and slammed the door behind him.

"What've you been doing with your sister, Robby?" he asked with quiet menace.

"What?"

"Your sister !" George moved in on him quickly and Robby flinched. "What've you been doing with her? Making out with her? Fucking her, maybe? Couldn't you go out and find yourself a real girlfriend?"

Robby stood and backed away from his dad, his face sagging with fear.

"Dad, you don't – I haven't – let me explain what's -"

"You'd fucking well better explain!" George shouted, rushing toward him until their noses were almost touching.

The doorbell rang.

"Well? I'm waiting, Robby. I'm serious , boy, I want to know what's -"

It rang again.

The Cuisinart did not stop.

"Son of a bitch," George hissed. He spun around, opened the door and leaned into the hall. "Karen! Get that!"

No response.

The doorbell rang again.

He murmured, "Me. Everything falls on me around here.” He turned to Robby and aimed a rigid forefinger at him. "I'll be right back. We are not dropping this." He pulled the door closed hard as he left.

Robby could hear him stomping down the hall. He waited a few moments, then quietly followed. He peered cautiously around the corner at the end of the hall and watched his dad go to the door.

George opened the front door to find the mail carrier smiling at him. He was a short, bearded man with thick glasses and a toothpick dangling from his lips. Behind him stood the reporters and cameramen he'd seen outside his bedroom. They rushed in as if attacking, stabbing their microphones toward George and vomiting questions all at once.

"I told you people to stay away from my house!" George barked, waving his arms toward the street. "Now get the hell out of here! I answered enough questions yesterday and I don't -"

The blonde woman stepped forward and asked quickly, "Could you explain the writing on your front door, Mr. Pritchard?"

" What writing on my -" He stopped and stared at the black circle with three odd names written inside. "I don't know what -"

"Did you know Ronald Prosky?" another reporter asked.

“ Who ?”

Robby's breath caught at the mention of the name.

As if on cue, the other reporters moved forward.

"Is it a religious symbol, Mr. Pritchard?"

"What happened to your window, Mr. Pritchard?"

"Do you think the murders were cult related?"

The mail carrier said, "Um, Mr. Prosky? You haven't been getting your mail for a few days. It's gotten pretty wet."

George stared at the stack of soggy mail in the man's hand while the reporters kept asking questions. He raised his arms and shouted, "Hold it, okay? Just hold it a second and let me get my mail."

The reporters were quiet, but did not move.

George frowned at the soaked mail as he took it. "Why'd you keep delivering our mail if it was getting wet ?" he snapped.

The carrier shrugged and spread his arms. "Hey, if you're gonna be gone, or something, it's your responsibility to put a hold on it. Otherwise, you gotta walk to the box and get it, okay?"

George pointed to the circle on the door and asked, "Did you do this?"

'" Course not, jeez . Look, I gotta go." Annoyed, he turned and headed for his red, white and blue Jeep idling at the curb.

A moment after he left, the reporters began firing questions again. George interrupted them with a shout.

" Okay ! Look, I don't know what this thing is -" He stabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the door. " – and I don't know who put it there, probably some neighbor kid, okay? I don't know who Ronald Whoever is, never heard of him, and I don't want to answer any more questions . I'm sure there are other people in the neighborhood who knew the Garrys a lot better than we did, so why don't you go bother them !"

He slammed the door. “Who drew on the door?" he growled, turning around. "Who the hell drew on the front -"

"I did." Robby stepped from the hall looking ill.

" You did? Well, what the hell is it?"

Robby looked over his shoulder, all around him, then gestured for George to follow him back to his bedroom. There, Robby told him everything.

Karen was making a stew.

She'd been up for nearly an hour and she still did not feel awake. She wasn't sure if what she'd seen when she first woke – the empty hole where the bedroom window used to be, covered by fluttering curtains – had been real or the lingering echo of a dream she'd been having, and she hadn't gone back into the bedroom to check. She didn't care. She didn't care that her family hadn't had breakfast yet, or that she was missing another day of work and Jen and Robby were missing school. She could not even make herself care much that an entire family that used to live down the street was now dead. All she cared about at the moment was making a stew that would last for a while so she wouldn't have to worry about cooking. And… Lorelle.

Since she woke, Karen had been unable to think a thought that did not involve Lorelle… the touch of her hand… her tongue… the hot moist brush of her breath on Karen's skin…

What they had done in bed beside George last night was as vivid in her mind as if it had happened minutes ago.

She stabbed a long carrot into the top of the Cuisinart and watched as the spinning blades sliced it into thin orange coins, feeling an undercurrent of satisfaction as the carrot danced a blade-spinning jig and its pieces clattered against the transparent plastic.

The window over the sink looked out on the long rectangular back yard where trees swayed in an icy wind and steel-gray clouds swept across the sky.

Beneath the whir of the Cuisinart the telephone rang, but it was white noise to Karen, unimportant. On the third ring, George shouted, "Answer the goddamned phone, Karen!"

She switched off the Cuisinart and stared blinking at the telephone as if she'd never seen it before. The six steps across the kitchen felt like a long journey with bricks tied to her ankles and, when she lifted it, the receiver felt heavy as lead.

"Hello?"

"Karen." The voice was warm honey oozing into Karen's ear and she leaned heavily against the wall and closed her eyes.

"Hello, Lorelle."

"I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."

"No."

"I just noticed your car was home. Are you sick?"

"I'm feeling a little, you know, under the weather." She tried to keep her voice from trembling, but hearing Lorelle brought to life memories of last night when Lorelle woke her with a gentle kiss. The sensations and smells and tastes rushed back vividly as if she were experiencing them all again.

"Do you feel too bad to come over for a while?" Lorelle asked. "Just a little while. For a visit." There was a smile in her voice.

Karen suddenly felt self-conscious, clumsy. "Well, I'm ma-making some stew, but I could, you know, finish that later, or just finish it up ruh-really quick and cuh-come over, unless you want me to -"

"That would be fine. I'll be waiting." She replaced the receiver softly at her end.

Karen licked her dry lips and hung up the telephone, walked slowly back to the counter and quickly began feeding more vegetables into the spinning blades of the Cuisinart. She dumped the chopped vegetables into a pot, quickly chopped the meat she'd thawed in the microwave, slicing her thumb open in the process, then put it all on the stove.