The Neighbors (10 page)

“Don’t worry about it,” he said grudgingly, but he hoped that Mickey
would
worry about it.

They both went silent again, watching a Swiffer commercial as though it were entertainment gold.

“You know they can see that, right?”

Mickey glanced over to Drew.

“The network,” Drew told him. “What you named it.”

Mick offered the TV an intent look, and Drew felt that kernel of distrust wiggle at the pit of his stomach. Harlow had warned him, however vaguely, and the more time he spent with Mickey the more he was starting to believe that there was something to her advice. Perhaps that was why nobody had complained to the city about the state of Mick’s house; maybe the people on Magnolia were scared of what he would do in response. Andrew watched his roommate out of the corner of his eye, trying to get a feel of what sort of danger Mickey could pose; what kind of criminal he could possibly be. But Drew couldn’t very well ask him what his deal was. He’d have to wait it out, pick up on clues, piece it together himself. Or maybe he’d use it as another excuse to see Harlow; if Mick got too weird, he’d go to her for advice.

“You aren’t worried that it’ll piss them off?”

“Piss what off?”

“The Wards,” Drew said. “Isn’t it better to try to stay on good terms with the neighbors instead of, I don’t know...” He shrugged. “Telling them they suck? What’s wrong with them, anyway?”

Mickey glared at the TV, then exhaled a sigh and shot Drew a look.

“Nothing,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. Where’d you look, anyway?”

“What?”

“For work,” Mick clarified.

“Oh, um...like everywhere? Grocery stores, DQ...” He rolled his eyes. “The job situation sucks.”

Mickey said nothing.

“Where do you work, anyway?” he asked.

Mickey stood and gave Andrew a look—ironically, one of wariness. “I’m going to bed,” he announced. “Lock up when you’re done.”

Before Andrew could push the subject, Mick dragged himself down the hall and disappeared behind his door.

Drew remained where he was for a long while, watching the flickering TV screen. He eventually turned off the TV, wandered to the front door, and threw the deadbolt in place, unable to help the incredulous smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. It was funny, Mickey making sure that Drew locked up before bed—as though anyone would want to break into that dump; as though there was someone to fear on Magnolia other than the guy who lived in the creepy house with the crooked gutters.

Walking down the hall, he paused in front of the locked door directly across from his own—yet another reminder that Mickey was hiding something, that all was not well. Stepping inside his room, he closed his door behind him, his eyes set on the window across the way, on the glow of light coming from the house next door, on the single rose he’d placed on his windowsill, its stem stuck inside a plastic water bottle.

Wavering beside the door, he considered whether to lock himself in. He chewed his bottom lip, his memories of Mickey still redolent of childhood, of the good times they’d had. He wanted to believe his misgivings were little more than paranoia—his guilt for leaving his mother behind manifesting itself
into uncertainty. Finally, he pushed himself away from the door, leaving it unlocked, sure that in due time his disquiet would pass.

Harlow pulled the palm of her hand across the top of the bed, smoothing wrinkles out of the comforter. While the house was pristine, this room was the one she cleaned the most; it was almost surgically sanitized. Nobody slept in that bed—at least not as often as she’d have liked—but she washed the sheets twice a week anyway, hopeful that her next guest would arrive soon. Nobody used the adjoining bathroom either, but she spent two hours a week scrubbing the sink, the toilet, the bathtub, until they sparkled like a cleaning product commercial. She vacuumed from the farthest corner of the bedroom back toward the door, leaving perfectly straight vacuum lines along the fibers of the carpet, imagining Andy doing the very same thing next door, determined to get that rat’s nest clean.

Today she had attacked the task with newfound zest, and she smiled to herself as she pulled the bedroom door closed. She could hardly wait. This time, it was going to be perfect.

She waited until the lights went out next door, and then she waited two hours more. Slipping out of bed, she left Red snoring in their bedroom. Her slippers silent on the stairs, she crossed the house into her kitchen, slipped a key out of the pocket of her robe, and unlocked the basement door. A minute later, the locked hallway door in Mickey’s house swung open, silent on its hinges, and Harlow stepped inside. She silently turned the knob of Drew’s door, smiling as it swung wide, unlocked, opening in greeting as she crept inside. Drew rolled over in his sleep, his right arm jutting out over the edge of the mattress; no regard for monsters that may have lurked beneath the bed.

She stood over him for a long while, watching him dream. She was tempted to brush his hair from his forehead, yearned to
touch his cheek, to let her robe slide from her shoulders before slipping into bed with him, naked beneath the sheets. She wanted to draw her lips across the shell of his ear, whisper that this was their little secret.
It’s OK, sweetheart,
she’d tell him.
This is my way of showing you how much I love you.

But it was too soon. She wanted him so badly, but it had to be perfect.

She eventually turned her attention to the dresser. Plucking up his wallet, Harlow drew a finger across the picture on his driver’s license: Andrew R. Morrison, only twenty-three years old. Sliding it out of its plastic holder, she brought it to her lips, her gaze snagging on the small card behind it—the one she had tacked to a plate of cookies. Her heart leapt at the sight of it. He had kept it. She had been right; Andrew wasn’t like the rest. Tucking his license back into place, she took a backward step toward the door, afraid that if she stayed any longer she wouldn’t be able to help herself—she’d wake him up, she’d make him hers. She placed the wallet back on the dresser, then slid it to its edge, allowing it to fall to the floor. She lingered for a while longer, then finally stepped out of the room.

The door was the first thing Andrew noticed: it was wide open. The second was that his wallet, which he’d left on top of his dresser, was now on the floor, as though someone had rifled through it and accidentally dropped it on their way out. He blinked at it from the bed, and for a good long while he couldn’t figure out what the hell he was seeing. Someone had been in his room; someone had messed with his stuff. Wallets didn’t just magically slide across the tops of dressers. Doors didn’t just open by themselves.

The sickening sensation of his privacy having been violated slithered over him. He shuddered, then threw the sheets aside,
marching across his room to snatch the wallet off the floor. As he thumbed through its contents, he realized that nothing was missing. But his head still swam with betrayal. There was no doubt that someone had come into his room while he slept. That, piled on top of the locked door, the refusal to answer questions, the “forgotten” password: Drew suddenly felt like he was back home, surrounded by deception and lies.

“Son of a bitch.”

Yanking the top drawer of his dresser open, he threw the wallet in amid his socks and underwear. Then he stomped down the hall, paused in front of Mickey’s room, took a breath, and pounded on the door.

“Hey!” he yelled, his fist hammering against cheap wood. “I need to talk to you.”

Mickey answered after a few seconds, groggy with sleep.

“The fuck, man?” He rubbed at one of his eyes, looking oddly childlike despite his wide shoulders. Mickey was put together like a bodybuilder, but Andrew refused to let his roomie’s size deter him.

“Did you come into my room last night?”

Mickey looked confused, but Drew refused to buy into his feigned innocence. Harlow was right: Mick was bad news. Maybe that was how he got his cash: by ripping off his housemates. Maybe he had been planning to take Drew’s money as well, but was stopped short by some remnant of their childhood friendship.

“My door was open and my wallet was on the floor,” Drew told him. “When I went to sleep, the door was closed and the wallet
wasn’t
on the floor.”

“Huh?” Mickey blinked back at him sleepily.

“You know, it’s one thing to invite someone to live with you when the place is a sty,” Drew told him. “It’s another to come into someone’s room and screw with their shit.”

“Hey,” Mickey said, raising a hand. “I didn’t mess with your shit, man.”

“Whatever,” Drew muttered, then turned away, not sure what he had expected to accomplish—not entirely sure why he was so pissed. If the guy wanted to, he could snap Drew’s neck without even trying, but Andrew’s irritation refused to subside. He couldn’t get the name of Mick’s home network out of his head:
my neighbors suck
. It rubbed him the wrong way. He took it personally—an attack on the only individual in Creekside who seemed to give half a shit about what was going on in his life; the only person who had his best interests in mind.

“I bet you rob banks.” It tumbled out of him involuntarily as he walked away. He winced as soon as it left his lips. It was below the belt, a result of his own feelings of inadequacy, of Mickey’s disaffection.

“Rob banks?” Mickey exhaled a snort. “You think I’d be living in this shithole if I robbed banks? You’re a real genius, huh? A real fucking Einstein.”

Drew stopped in his tracks, eyeing the crappy carpet beneath his feet. He had half a dozen comebacks to Mickey’s quip, but he held back, turning to face his former friend. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I just feel...” Drew hesitated, shook his head. “I don’t know, like maybe you offered for me to move in here on a whim, but you never thought I’d actually show up.”

Mickey stared at him for a long while, as though waiting for him to say something more. Drew was waiting for Mick to deny his theory, to shake his head and tell him that this feeling of his was ridiculous; of
course
he wanted Drew to move in. But Mickey stuck to the facts.

“Is anything missing from your room?” he asked.

“No,” Drew muttered.

“Maybe that’s because I didn’t mess with your shit.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know.” Mickey shrugged. “Maybe someone walked in through the front fucking door. It happens.”

“I locked the door.”

Mickey shrugged again.

“Are
you
missing anything?” Drew asked. “Have you checked?”

“I’m not missing anything,” Mickey said flatly.

“So, despite the front door being locked, someone got inside, they rifled through my stuff, not yours, and they didn’t take anything?”

“Maybe they didn’t come into my room.” Mickey stared at Drew, his eyes not once leaving his roommate’s face. “Maybe they weren’t after your shit. Ever think of that? Maybe they wanted something else. Or maybe it’s just your imagination,” Mickey added a moment later, “and you woke me up for nothing.”

Drew turned away, ready to wander back to his room, but he was stopped short by the final nail in the conversational coffin.

“That’s probably how you got here in the first place, right?” Mickey asked. “You overreacted?”

Mickey disappeared into his room. Drew felt like he was going to be sick—not only because he was terrible at confrontation, but because Mickey was right. Rather than approaching his mother with a demand for answers, Drew busted up the living room; he packed his shit; he abandoned her, just like his dad.