The Good Neighbor (20 page)

The Cemetery

C
oltrane Hart could count on one hand the number of times he’d left New York City for pleasure. Over the course of his distin

guished career, he’d taken many business trips to many cities: Paris, Hong Kong, London, Berlin, Amsterdam. But, since all he ever saw of these places were corporate boardrooms—all fur nished in remarkably similar style, with long tables of veneered wood and plush leather chairs—it was his opinion that the world outside New York was, for the most part, a cheap imitation of the real thing. He had noted, to his dismay, that people in other places often didn’t speak English at all, or if they did, it was with varying degrees of fluency, none particularly satisfying (especially the Lon doners); and when you sent out for lunch, you were bound to be disappointed, since nowhere in these cities could you find a pre dictable hamburger—only the unmentionable things that the na tives ate. Colt was always unpleasantly surprised to find himself out of New York; it was amazing to him that people could live anywhere else, and not mind it.

And now here he was in Pennsylvania—where he neither knew

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nor cared what the natives ate—standing on a porch that he owned, wearing his terry cloth bathrobe, pondering the bleakness of his latest acquisition. The first shocker had come last night, when he’d realized that for the first time in his life he was not within delivery range of a restaurant. And now, there was all this weather. In New York, the elements were mostly ornamental, but here they could really change things, and that made him nervous. He’d lived all his life half believing that the weather had been con quered, like polio, or the Nazis. Yet there had never been this much snow in Colt’s life before, or as much openness, or quiet, or sky. To be honest, it was already driving him crazy. And the lack of familiarity bothered him, too. Not only did he not recognize any thing, there was nothing to recognize. Everything was missing. There was simply nothing here—no buildings, no streets, noth ing. Was it possible that buying this place had been a mistake? Well, theoretically, you couldn’t go wrong with real estate these days, as long as you weren’t buying in a ghetto. As a living situa tion, it might be a different story. Still, he’d never said he was moving out here permanently, had he? It was only a vacation home—an experiment.

A trophy. Except now Francie had this stupid idea that she wanted to
live
here.

Looking out across the road, all Colt could see was nothing. The riverbed was sunken out of sight, below road level, and there were the pathetic trees. Beyond that were some fields, and far off in the distance the mountains. Other than that, there was not a goddam thing out here, and what little there was was all covered in white. Everything in the world looked like it was the same size and color. It was like being on the moon. Who in their right mind would want to live in a place like this? His wife, that’s who—she who hadn’t been in her right mind for some time, anyway.

Colt was standing in the freezing cold in his bathrobe, watching Randall Flebberman swoop up and down the driveway in his truck as he plowed away the remnants of last night’s storm. There was

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someone in the cab with him, a hulking thick figure of a man, ex cept it wasn’t a man—it was a teenager. Maybe he was Flebber man’s assistant. Flebberman and Company. Jesus, what a way to make a living, Colt thought. Here was this Flebberman, whose greatest mark on the world to date was a clean driveway, probably, or something equal to it. In other words, nothing. A real loser. Yet on Flebberman’s face, he saw nothing like despair—only a sense of presence, almost sublime in its totality, a look that said “I am plowing this driveway” and nothing more or less. Almost as if he had no idea he was supposed to be unhappy. Colt had slaved all his life to get somewhere, and by his own reckoning he still had some ways to go; yet to judge by the look on Flebberman’s face, one would think he’d already arrived. It was positively maddening.

Colt shivered in his bathrobe, the chill wind whipping up under neath to caress his unprotected genitals. This created in him a shriveling feeling, akin to fear, and so he poured the remains of his coffee into the snow and went inside. Yet he continued to watch Flebberman and the teenager through the picture window in the outer living room.
Jesus Christ
, he thought,
the son of a bitch actually looks like he’s enjoying himself
. It was making him sick to his stom ach.

He heard Francie’s footsteps as she came in through the back door, through the kitchen, and down the long hallway to where he stood now, but he didn’t turn around.

“Morning,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” said Francie. “It is, isn’t it?”

Couldn’t argue with that logic. After a moment Colt cleared his throat.

“I wonder how much this guy got paid by the bank to take care of this place. Might be worth it to keep him on. I certainly won’t have time to do it myself.”

“Colt, can we talk?” “We are talking.”

“I mean about last night.”

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“Oh, that,” said Colt. “Actually, I don’t have time.” “Why not?”

“I’m going back to the city.” “Already?”

“What do you mean, already?”

“I thought—Colt, can you look at me, please?”

Colt turned and looked at her. He could tell she wanted to get into it again: Why did you do it? What made you do it? Why can’t we have a baby? But he’d said all he had to say.

“I . . . thought you were going to stick around a few days,” she said. “Help me unpack, and get things in order.”

“That’s what your brother ’s here for,” Colt said. “Might as well make himself useful. I want to get back to work. This place isn’t going to pay for itself, you know.”

“Oh,” said Francie. “All right, then.”

Colt was surprised. He’d been expecting another fight.

“Yes,” he said, with a mixture of relief and disappointment. “All right.”

“See you around,” said Francie, heading back toward the kitchen.

❚ ❚ ❚

Colt went upstairs, into the large bathroom off the master bed room. It also bore the marks of the haphazard renovations of the 1970s, though to what degree it had benefited was clearly a matter for debate. There was a large tub, and a flexible, European-style showerhead, but the walls were tiled in pink pastel, and the rug, truly an abomination, was some kind of greenish shag. Who the hell put rugs in bathrooms, anyway? Old ladies, that’s who. That would be first on his list of things to have done around here—to redo this bathroom into something he could tolerate. Turning on the tap, he found he had to wait an unacceptably long time for hot water as he stood, naked and uncomfortable, with earth

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chilled well water splashing around his feet. When hot water did come, it was gone within ten minutes. So the water heater would need replacing, too. That would be number two on the list. Colt groused as he put on the one suit he’d brought from the city. Money, money, money. This house was going to keep on costing him. Nothing, damn it, was ever finished being paid for.

When he came downstairs again, he saw through the window that Flebberman and the giant teenager were now talking to Michael and Francie. The teenager towered a full six inches over the older man, although he slumped against the hood of the truck as if in the middle of a heart attack. Colt stepped briskly outside, pulling out his wallet.

“Colt, this is Marge Westerbrook’s son,” said Francie. “Owen. You remember? We sort of met him the day we looked at the house. He helps Randy out sometimes when he’s not in school.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Hi,” said the teenager, in a voice as deep and thick as molasses. “Hi, kid. What do I owe you for the plowing?” Colt asked Fleb

berman.

Flebberman lifted a hand. “Nothin’,” he said. Colt paused, impatient. “Come on. Really.”

“I been plowin’ this driveway a long time,” said Flebberman. “I just like to keep it clean. Kinda used to it by now. Makes the place look lived in.”

“It
is
lived in,” said Colt.

“Colt, what Mr. Flebberman means is, he did it as a favor. And when someone does something nice for you, the proper response is ‘Thank You,’ ” said Francie.

Colt shot Francie a dirty look. “ ’Snothin’,” said Flebberman.

“I wanted to ask you if you’d be willing to keep on minding the property for me, on a permanent basis. I won’t have much time for it myself. You know, plowing and yard work and . . . all that,” Colt said.

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“Oh,
I
can do some of it,” said Francie quickly. “Some of the yard work, anyway. I was looking forward to doing it in the spring. Having a garden and all.”

“Mr. Flebberman is a professional,” Colt told his wife pointedly. “He knows what he’s doing.”

“So do I,” said Francie.

“Aw,” said Flebberman. “We’ll see, I guess.”

Colt frowned. “I’m offering you work here,” he said. “What does ‘We’ll see’ mean? Do you want the job or not?”

Flebberman looked down at his boots, shuffling them through the snow. He and Owen exchanged glances. Then he shot another look at Colt, his thin, almost invisible eyebrows lowered.

“Sure,” he said, resentful. “If yer offerin’.” “How much was the bank paying you?”

Flebberman looked upward now, calculating. “Two hunnerd bucks a month,” he said.

“I’ll give you one seventy-five.” “Coltrane!” Francie said, shocked.

“What? I’m bargaining, here. Do you mind?” “Not with our neighbor, you’re not. It’s rude.”

Flebberman said nothing, his eyes going from Colt to Francie like they were engaged in a tennis match. He looked at Owen again, as if to say
I told you they’d be like this
.

“No, it isn’t,” said Francie. “It’s a crime, is what it is. We’ll pay you . . . we’ll pay you two fifty a month, Mr. Flebberman. Would that be all right? If you kept the driveway clear in winter, and mowed the lawn, and helped me with trimming the brush and all that? Once spring comes, I mean?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Colt. “I see my own wife is cutting my legs out from under me. All right, Mr. Flebberman, what do you say? Two hundred fifty a month, all in.”

Flebberman still said nothing; he looked down at his boots again, then wistfully at his truck, which—though the engine had been idling all this time—was in such an excellent state of repair

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that one could hardly hear it running. Colt noticed that Owen Westerbrook was staring at Francie as though he had never seen a woman before, which out here in the boonies was a distinct possi bility. Francie smiled at him; Owen turned a deep shade of red and looked away. Colt smirked.

“Awright,” Flebberman said, his voice barely audible. “Good,” said Francie. “Thank you, Mr. Flebberman.”

“Maybe he can clean up that old cemetery,” Michael said. “Clear the branches out of it and all.”

“Well, it’s great to see you again, Mr. Flebberman,” Francie said quickly. “And nice to meet you, Owen. We appreciate you coming by.”

“What cemetery?” asked Colt. “Did you say ‘cemetery’?”

Flebberman looked at Michael. “So you found it,” he said in a low, almost resigned voice.

“Found what?” said Colt, as Francie’s heart sank. She shot Michael a murderous look, but he missed it.

“There’s a little cemetery way out back. We just found it this morning,” Michael said excitedly. “A real old one. Sissie and I—” He stopped short, remembering, too late, that it was supposed to be kept secret. “Oh,” he said. “Oops.”

“You mean on this property?” Colt said, incredulous. “There’s dead people
on this property
?”

“Yuh. That’d be my fambly,” Flebberman said. “The Captain and his wife and kids. I ain’t been back there for some time. Since when I was a little kid, and Aunt Helen was still alive.” He turned to Owen, who had now draped his entire frame over the hood of the truck, like a dishrag. “You remember that old cemetery, Owen?”

“Yuh,” Owen said. “I seen it once or twice.”

“It’s very charming,” said Francie. “It’s
peaceful
,” she added. “It’s gone,” said Colt.

Francie, Flebberman, Owen, and Michael all looked at him at the same time, as if he had just shouted some horrible obscenity about their mothers.

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“Uh, what’s that now?” said Flebberman.

“I said, it’s gone. Gonzo. Outa here,” Colt said. “I don’t want something like that on my property. Jesus, that’s disgusting!”

“Colt, people used to have cemeteries all the time, in the old days,” said Francie. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Francie, we have
well water
, for Chrissakes,” said Colt.

“Oh, they ain’t gettin’ in your water,” said Flebberman. “ They’re back far enough. They knew better than that.”

“I don’t care. I’m having it moved,” said Colt. “It makes me sick just to think of it. Jesus! All those maggots and—ech!” He shiv ered, as if these maggots were now crawling along his neck. “No wonder the bank didn’t want to haggle,” he said to Francie. “Re member how I said something would come up? That it was too good to be true? This is it. This is exactly what I was talking about. God damn it, I am going to sue the pants off that bitch of an agent!”

“Hey,” said Owen Westerbrook. “That’s my mom yer talkin’ about.”

“
Coltrane!
I am so sorry. My husband is from the city,” Francie said to them, as if that explained everything.

Flebberman’s cheeks had colored. “Waddaya mean, yer havin’ it moved?”

“I mean like, dug up and relocated,” said Colt. “That’s what I mean.”

“Oh,” said Flebberman. He balled his fists and his voice began to shake. “I sure wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“There’s absolutely no reason to,” said Francie desperately. “Colt, be reasonable. It’s been there forever. They’re all gone by now, anyway. Decomposed.”