Don't Ask My Neighbor

Don’t Ask

My

Neighbor

AN ATTORNEY J.B. GRAYBOURNE

NOVEL

ALSO BY KRISTOFER CLARKE

Second Thoughts

‘Til It Happens To You

Less Than Perfect Circumstance

Published by Second Twin Publishing

Kristofer Clarke

Don’t Ask

My

Neighbor

AN ATTORNEY J.B. GRAYBOURNE

NOVEL

Second Twin Publishing

Landover, MD

Published by Second Twin Publishing, LLC

Copyright © 2013 by Kristofer Clarke

This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, business, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover Photography by Emmanuel Fisher

for Photography by Emmanuel

www.photographybyemmanuel.com

Cover and book design by James Jefferson for

PlatinumPixels, LLC

ISBN-13: 978-0-9851528-3-3

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

First Edition April 2013

____________________________________________

“To you, O God of my fathers, I give thanks and praise, for you have given me wisdom and might, and have made known to me what we asked of you.”

I give thanks to God for vision, creativity, and strength. Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to do something I truly enjoy. Without Him this journey could never be completed, and I thank you for being there with me every step of the way. You truly are an awesome God. I am forever humbled by your blessings.

__________

“I would thank you from the bottom of my heart, but for you my heart has no bottom.”

- Unknown

Thank you to my family and friends for your support and encouragement through this entire process. Your love has been immeasurable. Words could never express my appreciation for each of you. With every book, you’ve understood and praised my dedication. You accepted my isolation, and celebrated my accomplishments as if they were your own. Thank you for your unconditional love.

Thank you to my team for working diligently to make this a rewarding experience. To Jenetha McCutcheon (Editor), Emmanuel Fisher (Photographer), James Jefferson (Graphic Designer), Xavier (Model) and Moneika Small (Model), thank you for being the professionals you are. I am fortunate for always having such positive energy to help bring my vision to completion.  

Thank you to my literary family for your support and your push. You truly are like family. You are mentors, friends, avid supporters, and confidants, and I appreciate you all for the roles you play in my literary journey.

Last, but certainly not least. Thank you to the readers, book clubs, reviewers, fellow authors, and others in the literary world for your support, and for allowing me the opportunity to entertain you once again with these intriguing characters.

Prosperity, Happiness, Love

Kristofer Clarke

Visit me at
www.kristoferclarke.webs.com

Don’t Ask

My

Neighbor

AN ATTORNEY J.B.  GRAYBOURNE

NOVE
L

Prologue

I SAT IN THE BACK WEARING a mourning funeral black hat. Four black roses sat evenly spaced around it, looking as if they had just bloomed. A ragged, shoulder-length veil extended over my face, hiding tears that I had all rights to cry, but had managed to hold back. A black pavé pearl necklace lay flat against my almond-colored skin. I was the only one sitting in my pew. I was probably also the only uninvited guest, but I wasn’t going to miss this for anything in the world. I wasn’t here to bear witness to any holy matrimony, because there was nothing holy about the two that stood in the distance before me. Moreover, there was nothing sanctified about the thoughts that floated through my mind. I wasn’t there to smile and congratulate the new bride, throw rice—or whatever they throw these days—as they descended the steps just beyond the curved, bronze doors. I wasn’t going to stand in a sea of single ladies, fighting for a tossed bouquet that, if caught, would automatically crown me as the next bride. I wasn’t even there to get him back, even though I had not given her permission to have him in the first place. I had already watched what I had become hers, now I was there to witness this calm before the inevitable storm.

The ch
urch was a magnificent cathedral—I had my own nuptials there. It was where I always wanted to marry. I didn’t know she shared that sentiment. Its florescent whites and golden yellows accented every curve and crevice, making even the night an envious backdrop. The aisle was long enough for my guests to gawk at the beauty I had transformed into—every woman’s dream on their wedding day—as I glided toward my man. Now I sat back in resentful silence, watching him gaze at her the way he once looked at me, and I was sure she felt like I did, like she was the only woman in his world. I remembered the butterflies in the pit of my stomach, and sweaty hands wrapped around a bouquet of calla lilies, and I sat there experiencing those same physiological changes for very different reasons. 

I tried to avoid the seemingly choreographed glances and whispers that followed as they, judging by the lips I read, asked rhetorical questions even they couldn’t answer. There were a few familiar faces that came to bear witness to this mockery. I promised to forever hold my peace, knowing damn well I was making a promise I had no intention of honoring.  Oh, trust me. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and I was that woman. I sat in the back, watching the man I loved marry the woman I now loathe, and I was thankful that the black veil screened the disgust on my face the moment her vow was spoken from her lips.

She had his left hand in hers, his ring finger ready to be ornamented with a white gold symbol of her love, though it was pretend love.  She looked deep in his eyes and took a vow of for better or for worse, and to give herself only to him, for as long as they both shall live. I guess, on this day, everyone was making promises they had no intention of keeping. I didn’t stay around to listened to him repeat any identical promise to love, cherish, comfort, honor, and keep her, for richer or poorer, and to forsake all others. I knew what a lie that would be. She had spent a better part of her life coveting everything that walked with two legs and pissed standing up.

One

________

Promises We Don’t Keep

Kennalyn 

I SAT ON THE FRONT PORCH, leaning against one of the two round fluted columns. Though I had one brother and two other sisters—all of them were older—and a mother and father who were usually around, I sat there alone. My legs were extended before me, although they were barely long enough to touch the second of the two steps. I sat braiding the end of one ponytail that hung in the front, past my shoulders and over bosoms that had just started to grow in. I was neatly dressed in a white jean jacket, blue denim pants, and white Chuck Taylor shoes. I was all dressed up to go nowhere. It was the autumn of 1985. I was nine years old.

“Kennalyn, don’t run out that door without putting on your jacket first!” my mother, Angelique, yelled just as I was closing the door behind me.

She didn’t even ask where I was going—she never did. I’m not sure if it was because she knew I would never venture further than the front gate, orbecause she just wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet, and a glass of red win
e—
’cause she had to have that glass of red wine—before the hustle and bustle that was my father Camden, the twins, and Lincoln.

I used to spend most of my evenings leaning on the fence, talking with old Ms. Abigail Oliphant. I called her old, but her old was beautiful. In my short years, I’d watch Ms. Oliphant grow old gracefully. She had a striking smile with waves of wrinkles stretching from the corners of her mouth to
her ears. Her eyes mimicked brown velvet. I’d already concluded that color was old age’s gift, and not some genetic mutation. She was often dressed in a plaid skirt and a plaid shirt, often of colors that didn’t match. While we talked, she tended to her garden in the front of her yard, which was unlike most North Carolinians who had their gardens in the back. During the summers, she wore a white toyo hat with a black and white ribbon. She would garden from morning till evening, usually taking a break to sit and deliver her stories from an old wooden garden bench. She always rested her hat to her right, and sat as I often did, with her legs stretched out before her. She spent most of the time talking about her late husband, Dalton Oliphant, which I didn’t mind. She never looked at me while she talked, so I couldn’t tell you if tears followed her narration. I always stood behind her, listening absorbedly to her colorful stories.

Her stories about Dalton Oliphant always seem to bring him back to life. While I never met him, I felt like I knew him. According to Grandmother Oliphan
t—that’s what I called her when my real grandmothers weren’t around—her husband died in the summer of ’75, one year and a few months before I was born. How he died depended on the story Grandmother Oliphant told. When she told of his war stories, he had died during the Second World War, where he was a flying ace. Between 1983 and 1985, Mr. Oliphant’s cause of death had been a cerebral tumor, cancer, and a heart attack. My mother confirmed that old Mr. Oliphant died of heart failure at sixty years old, leaving Ms. Oliphant as his only survivor.

I had my last conversation with Grandmother Oliphant the beginning of summer 1985. She had been dead a week before my parents finally told me what happened. Until then, every day I stood at the fence, behind the wooden garden bench, waiting for her to entertain me with her stories. I went to my mother after three days of waiting and wondering why I hadn’t seen Ms. Oliphant.

“Honey, I’m sorry,” my mother began. “Mrs. Oliphant went to be with Mr. Oliphant.”

“But, that’s impossible, Mom,” I said, walking past my mother, heading toward the arched living room window. I stood staring through the sheer wine-color drape. “Mr. Oliphant is dead. She told me so herself.”

I stood, twisting my fingers. I felt my mother’s cold hands on my shoulders.

“Yes, baby. He is.”

My mother took my hand and led me to the couch.

“Have a seat, sweetheart,” she said, tapping the empty space on the couch next to her.

I sat back in the couch with my legs dangling close to the floor.

“Where did Ms. Oliphant go, Mommy?” I asked, looking directly at her, thinking,
why won’t she just tell me what I already figured out?

I knew Grandmother Oliphant well. Only death could keep her from her garden, and from our daily conversations. If my mother worried about hurting me, she was already too late; my hurt began the first morning I stood looking at an empty garden bench.

“Ms. Oliphant died, baby. A week ago,” my mother said, breaking my heart all over again.

I remember thinking,
why didn’t she warn me? Why didn’t she tell me something would one day take her away from me?
I was upset, but I already missed her too much to stay that way
.
I cursed her for being so selfish, although that was probably her way of protecting me from the hurt she always talked about after losing her beloved Dalton.

After my mother’s confirmation, I waited for words to come pouring from my mouth, but tears streamed from my eyes instead. I ran out the front door and I spent the rest of my summer posing as a mute on the front porch, leaning on the column, either braiding my hair or playing with the laces in my Chuck Taylors. I missed Grandmother Oliphant. I sat on my front porch, looking in the direction of Ms. Oliphant’s garden, waiting for her, or some version of her, to appear. I watched the once-green vegetables slowly wither to a bed of brown dirt. A month later, the “for sale” sign went up, and a month after that, Samantha Wells-Garrett moved in.

I wasn’t immediately convivial to Samantha. I took my sweet time rolling out the red carpet or welcome mat for her. I hated her most on days when she sat on the bench in what used to be Ms. Oliphant’s garden. Like the good neighbors my parents were, they had introduced themselves to Dr. and Mrs. Niko Garrett two days after they moved in. I stood at the gate, staring through the five maple trees that dominated the grounds of their front yard, watching my parents take long strides up the L-shaped driveway to the cozy brownstone. My mother carried one of her homemade apple pies for Mrs. Garrett; my father gifted a bottle of red from his small wine collection for the doctor. I wondered if the Garretts kept the interior the same: the wrought iron stairs, the rope lighting, or the picket-back chair that sat under the dining room window, where Ms. Oliphant sat and read when winters got too cold.

It was two days after the first day of winter, two days before we celebrated Christmas, before I allowed myself to get close to Samantha. It was just cold enough for my olive green cable turtleneck sweater and faded jeans. Samantha’s small model-like physique that she flaunted all summer long was now hidden under a cream-colored zip cardigan that she sported over a pink turtleneck and a pair of blue jeans. Hers seemed to fit her better than mine did. I stood behind her, attempting to introduce her to the woman who used to entertain me
with her stories. She seemed uninterested. She kept her back to me, but I kept talking. I figured, eventually, she would say something that’ll shut me up, but since she didn’t, I assumed she was listening.

“My grandmother died when I was ten years old,” Samantha offered.

I looked up, surprised that the mute actually had a voice. Until that evening in December, she was probably thinking the same thing about me. She spent most of the almost six months since she moved in staring more than anything else. Every now and then she would smile, but that was quickly replaced with the solemn face that seemed to follow her everywhere.

“How old are you now?” 

“I’ll be thirteen in two days,” she responded in haste, finally turning around to face me.

So my thoughts that Samantha looked older than me were confirmed. She was beautiful, too, just as she looked from a distance. She didn’t wear her hair in ponytails like I did. Her black hair hung untamed on both sides of her face. Her short bang swept across her brow, just above her dark brown eyes. When she finally smiled, her smile was warm and even. Up close, she looked more innocent than she did when I stared at her from my front porch.

“So, you were born on Christmas Day? You must be lucky?”

I didn’t know what else to ask her.

“I was born on Christmas Day, but why does that makes me lucky?”

“That’s what Grandmother Oliphant used to say about my sisters, Macie and Nina. She always said ‘anyone born on the same day as our Savior has got to be lucky, or at least chosen’.”

“Did you believe everything your grandmother told you?” she asked.

I looked at her with puzzling eyes. Besides inaccurately telling the cause for Mr. Oliphant’s demise, Grandmother Oliphant had never lied to me, and if she had, there was no one to confirm otherwise.

“Well, I don’t consider myself lucky or chosen,” Samantha continued.

“Why not?” I asked, not knowing if she would divulge the very things that caused her to feel this way.

“Luck has never been on my side, and sometimes I feel I’m here because my mother had no damn choice.”

I gasped at the words that fell from Samantha’s mouth, appalled at the expletive that punctuated her charge.

Samantha walked closer and stood on the other side of the white picket fence. Though she was a bit taller, we were both still too short to see over the pickets; however, there was enough space between them that allowed us to concentrate on each other’s eyes as we spoke. I listened as Samantha spoke about how she no longer looked forward to her birthday, not since her mother woke up one morning, four Christmases ago, to find her father dead in the bed beside her from an apparent nocturnal seizure. Samantha spoke about hearing her mother’s terrifying screams as if she were still hearing them in her head. Also, she was not too pleased when her stepfather, Dr. Niko Garrett, announced they were moving to North Carolina, taking her away from the friends she had known her short life—the same friends with whom she planned on celebrating entering her teenage years. She hadn’t spoken to him since the family left Genesee, Michigan.

“You can still celebrate, can’t you?”

“Who am I going to invite, you and your family?”

She asked as if that was such a bad idea. I understood her hesitation. She didn’t know much about her neighbors. I’ve never seen her exchange more than a glance and a weak smile with my brother and sisters. They were a few years older than she, so I didn’t see them talking about too much. And, until our conversa
tion, I was the little girl who was always sitting on her front porch, with her ponytails, afraid to even ask her new neighbor her name.

On Saturday, December 28, three days after her actual birthday, our families celebrated Samantha’s thirteenth birthday. My brother and sisters went because I pleaded with them, and promised to do half the house chores for which they were responsible that week. They didn’t stay long. While the Garretts amused my parents downstairs in the living room, Samantha and I retreated to her bedroom and became more acquainted. That night, I pledged my allegiance to Samantha Wells-Garrett. She promised to be loyal from that day forward. We were “best friends forever”. Unfortunately, “forever” ended one warm night in June, almost twenty years later, when Samantha showed up at my house on the day of my third wedding anniversary to Gage Delahunt.