Nosy Neighbor

Middle of the night, I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and cleaned the house. Swept the kitchen floor, scrubbed the stove, Windex’ed the glass panes. That’s when I saw him.

Sneaking through the side yard, giant hoodie covering his head, like some movie star slumming it in public. Except he weren’t no celebrity and this path only led to the woods down by the river.

As if I didn’t recognize him, that skinny kid who hung out behind the package store, smoking dope or crack or whatever delinquents smoked these days. First time he came up behind me when I was loading bottles of Jim Beam in my trunk, he didn’t scare me. More likely I coulda whupped him, even an old woman like me, as down-and-out pathetic as he looked. Acned skin, rotten teeth, thin as a whippet. He offered to load my grocery bags for change, but I didn’t trust him back then. I gave him a ham and cheese sandwich I bought at the A&P, the one I planned on having for lunch, and he wandered away.

Eventually, from time to time, the boy did errands for me, the ones I found particularly disagreeable. He’d do anything for money and a meal. Like when I parked my car under a shade tree at church on that God-awful hot day and that cawing bird shat all over it. I gave Skinny a few dollars to clean it. I never bothered going back to that church if all you’re gonna get is shit on.

In the next house over, at the Freely’s, all the blinds were closed that morning, the lights were off, but the bathroom window was open. Mr. Freely, the pilot, never left windows open. He was particular about that, among everything else. Mrs. Freely complained about the rules he set that she had to follow. She acted a different story when he flew away on his 747, like two tales crammed into one book. Sober and minding her business when he was home; giddy and wearing short shorts and halter tops when he went out of town. Drinking wine out of fancy crystal glasses with visitors in the evenings. And when I say visitors, I mean young men. Younger than her, despite her good looks and those made-up eyes, her bleached blond hair, and curvy figure. I seen her ID when I peeked in her purse one day while she made us cocktails. Forty-two. No spring chicken. And them boys, they had to be about twenty or so.

Me and Mrs. Freely got to be acquaintances when we figured out we liked the same thing: Old Fashioned cocktails in the afternoon. We took turns visiting each other’s home when the pilot went flying around the country, the hostess responsible for mixing the drinks, the guest for providing the Ritz Crackers and Cracker Barrel cheddar cheese. We’d sit on her porch in her fancy cushioned chaise lounges or in my backyard on the white plastic chairs. Talking like two old friends; despite our age differences, we had a lot to say about life.

From my kitchen window, I could see just about everything that happened in the Freely house when the blinds were open. In the warm months, I could hear the noises. The pilot yelling whenever he came home, doors slamming, glass breaking, followed by that awful silence.

I worried about Mrs. Freely. I seen the cuts and bruises. I asked her once what happened, and she lied. I didn’t bother bringing it up again. But I let her know I knew what went on, nodding or staring or frowning when she wore dark glasses indoors, or rubbed her ribs and moaned, or plastered on too much dark purply lipstick. Them times, we’d just sit and drink our Old Fashioneds and listen to the birds chattering like arguments.

On this particular morning, before the sun had a chance to rise, after I seen the boy, I put on my rubber boots and grabbed the flashlight to take out the trash. Not that it was trash day, but I could get a better look at the Freely’s house from the street. I snuck out silent as a skunk, not that anyone would notice. The old folks on the block were still sawing wood, and the young ones with their faces stuck in their phones wouldn’t notice a cow spawning the devil if it happened right in front of ‘em.

I moseyed up the Freely’s driveway, careful not to step on the grass and leave heavy footprints. The pilot would flip a lid over a hole in his perfect lawn. I peeked in the garage window. The mister’s Cadilac Seville was parked there, so he must be home. Mrs. Freely’s Camry was gone. I hoped she was okay.

I headed around the back of the house. Couldn’t see a thing inside what with the curtains all drawn tight as a nun’s you-know-what. I pushed open the gate to the backyard, and it squeaked its rusty wail. The pilot wouldn’t like that. Past the rose bushes, up onto the porch, I peered in the kitchen window. Nothing moved. From my sweater pocket, I fished out the back door key Mrs. Freely gave me. In case of an emergency. Like maybe she was too hurt to get up. Or worse.

I unlocked the door, took off my boots and stepped inside. Couldn’t track dirt in the Freely’s house. Floor had to be perfectly scrubbed. The cool dark room, hum of the refrigerator, scent of Pine Sol. No overturned furniture, no broken dishes, no signs of a fight, like that other time.

I tip-toed through the dining room, past the bathroom. A cold breeze blew in from the open window. The Kleenex box lay on the floor. I replaced it on the counter and closed the window.

My heart beat heavy in my chest, as I stood at the base of the stairs. Not from exertion, more from excitement. I climbed one slow step at a time. At the landing, I peeked in the sewing room. Neat and orderly as a Good Housekeeping magazine cover photo. Mrs. Freely could sew anything. Made me them pretty, yellow gingham curtains hanging in my kitchen windows. Even sewed her own dresses, so she’d be an original. One of a kind. Too good to be beaten.

Inside the master bedroom, I switched on my flashlight and made my way to the bed, careful not to bump or tip anything over. Held my breath against the heavy scent of metallic sweat.

The pilot lay on his back, in his blue pajamas, his legs under the blanket. A gash, the size and shape of a switch blade, opened his chest over his heart. Deep red blood stained his shirt and the sheets. Never going to get that out, even with bleach. His eyes were closed in sleep and in death. The knife was gone, probably at the bottom of the river by now. I shined the flashlight beam on his chest to watch for his breathing, but there weren’t none. Good riddance to a bad man.

I backed out the door. Retraced my footsteps home, minding to stay clear of neighbors’ prying eyes. In my o wn kitchen, I washed my hands under hot water for a long while, then put on the kettle. Sat at the table by my kitchen window with my cup of tea and watched the sun rise over the Freely’s treetops.

I musta fallen asleep. I reeled up in the hard wooden chair, my back aching and cracking, my head sore from pressing on the table. I drew the gingham curtains, so I could see over yonder. The Freely’s housekeeper sat hunched on the front steps, fanning herself with the newspaper. I felt bad she had to discover the pilot’s body. She was the nervous type, who shrieked and made the sign of the cross at every little thing.

Of course, I never woulda called the cops. I don’t like getting involved. If they came to ask me anything, I’d mumble, act dotty, or pretend I’d been asleep. Wouldn’t say nothing about seeing the skinny boy in the alley. They wouldn’t bother with me.

I lumbered up and filled the kettle. Scrambled an egg, toasted bread, and ate by the window. Detectives went in and out the Freely’s front door, took pictures around the back, and smoked cigarettes on the lawn, making all kinds of dents in it.

Finally, the coroner and his boy rolled out a stretcher with a black body bag on top. Had to be the pilot. They loaded him in a van and drove off.

I reached for the phone and dialed the number.

“Hello?” Mrs. Freely’s sweet voice.

“It’s done, dear. You can come home now.”

BIO: Aimee Kluck writes about people living and scrambling on the edge, champions of revenge and good taste. Her short stories appear in numerous anthologies and online magazines, most recently in LAXtras Anthology and Punk Noir. A member of MWA, SinC, & Short Mystery Fiction Society. Formerly from New England and San Francisco, she lives and dances in the streets in southern California. www.aimeekluck.com

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