My neighbor will be deemed harmless, but will still move away.
I will not die of rabies.
The children won’t feel abandoned or unloved or guilty because I divorced their father.
I will win a small amount of money, which will allow me to dig myself out of debt.
I will get this yard under control.
I can fix broken things in a house.
I will catch that nasty chin hair the very morning it sprouts.
“Mom,” Wyatt says, gazing up, “you know how birds fly in a V?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you think they decide who’s the leader?”
“No idea, Wy. Let’s look it up during Chloe’s nap.”
“I’m all done with naps,” Chloe says, pissed off.
“That’s nice,” I say. “Who wants to swing?”
Everybody’s a sucker for the swing set. Ours is two swings and a slide framed by wood that is splintering and stained moss-green, but still sturdy. Chloe swings on my lap, then Wyatt’s lap, then she swings solo on her tummy, her downy, white-blond hair puffing and hanging mid-air before her body pulls it the opposite direction.
We pick wild raspberries off prickly brambles behind the shed and pop them into our mouths without worrying about dirt or microscopic worms.
Don’t look at his house. Not a single glance.
The kids migrate to the sun-faded, hole-ridden sandbox under the slide, and I discreetly slip away to unlock the shed. It is a circular combination lock, and the motion of my fingers rotating past the numbers brings back an angst associated with the memory of rushing my high-school locker open.
The heat and odors pouring out are both suffocating and nostalgic. Hot grass, thick oil, and decay. There is a faint buzzing in the dark, cluttered back corner. I imagine a small cluster of carpenter bees working on a home. They haven’t bothered me yet, and the kids don’t go in the shed because it’s always locked. Coaxing bees to relocate is a concern for another day.
I grab hedge clippers, gardening gloves, a big shovel for me or Wyatt, and a plastic hand trowel in case Chloe insists on helping.
I hack weeds that have grown too solid, too tree-like to pull. My shiny clippers gnaw at their thin trunks. Mosquitoes aren’t too bad, but the heat and humidity are relentless. Plus, I’m wearing a turtleneck; I didn’t want the kids to come in contact with my scratches.
I peek at the kids every few minutes. Still in the sandbox. Wyatt still patient even though his sister ruins every damn thing he builds. Nevertheless, his bucket of patience is small and will soon be empty.
My yard-work timer is short. I have fifteen minutes, tops.
I swear I weeded here a week ago. Look away, and things spiral out of control. Gnats buzz the corners of my eyes.
Inside the house, the landline rings.
I feel obliged to answer the landline because the answering machine is set too loud and I hate hearing my recorded voice at such an irritating volume. I have been meaning to change the volume on that thing since we moved in. I glance at the kids, drop the clippers in the grass, and peel off my gloves.
Inside, air-conditioned coolness blasts my skin and feels amazing, like a cold beer slipping down my throat felt a decade ago. “Hello?”
“Hi, Grace. This is Chuck. Sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday. I’m catching up on phone calls this morning from home.”
At the sound of his voice, my skin prickles and my throat quivers.
Chuck is the representative for Whisper County State’s Attorney’s Office. We have become strangely familiar these past five days. During our previous two conversations, I drilled him with questions about Ava Boone’s case, driving my raw emotion across telephone wires.
He has not enjoyed talking to me. I am a mosquito buzzing his ear, but he empathizes and that’s why he hasn’t blown me off. I haven’t asked him, but I’m guessing he has kids. He is also Liz’s neighbor. He knows I work with Liz so it’s just as possible that he doesn’t have kids, but doesn’t want to be a dick to his neighbor’s pesky friend.
I stand at the screen, watching the kids. Still in the sandbox, still getting along. A small lottery.
“I’m sorry to keep bugging you,” I say, not sorry at all, “but I need more details about Ava’s case.” It’s difficult to even say her name. It feels indulgent or shameful or careless or maybe all of these.
Don’t consider what she’s like, that she’s a girl with an easy joy in her eyes, generous with her candy, mortified of bees, and will stand her ground when it comes to brussels sprouts and hairbrushes. That she has a bad habit of picking at the dry edges of scabs on her knees. That she dances and twirls even when there’s no music. That she loves cats and horses and anything you can sniff: markers, lip gloss, lotions. Don’t dare contemplate what she might have gone through. What she might still be going through.
“Well,” I say, “not about the case, but why Leland Ernest is a suspect.”
“Listen, Grace. Like I said before, my hands are tied in what I can tell you because the investigation is ongoing.”
We have gone through boring, rehearsed generalities before. I need more. I need gossipy details that will give me a feel for my neighbor’s state of mind and why the police consider him possibly dangerous.
Don’t let him off the phone until you get at least one detail.
“Chuck, I need to gauge how dangerous this guy is. I mean, my kids are outside. They’re in the sandbox right now. Should I let them outside?”
He ignores this question. Of course he does. He maneuvered around most of my questions during our previous conversations, maneuvered himself off the phone, which is why I left him another message, which is why we are talking again.
“If the detectives had evidence that Leland abducted a child, they would have charged him,” he says. “But there is no case against him. Ava Boone is, well, it’s not a court case; it is a police investigation. All I know has come from talk around the office. The police department is your best bet for information.”
“I have called the police department. Many times. They won’t tell me anything.” He knows this.
I check the sandbox. Two heads? Affirmative.
“Chuck, I have a little girl outside. I don’t have a fence. My door is, I don’t know, twenty, thirty feet from his, nothing between our doors but grass and trees.” I gaze at Leland’s backyard. There’s a cluster of saplings at the end of his lawn, his own little forest. “If Leland is, was, a suspect, doesn’t that mean there is some concerning evidence on him?”
This is another question that will get a vague answer, but I need to keep the conversation rolling. I need to wear him out, I need him to feel bad for shutting me down over and over. I need to nudge him into an emotionally charged state of mind where his sympathy outweighs routine and protocol.
“Someone can be considered a suspect without physical evidence. If they had a motive or opportunity.” His coolness raises my pulse. My forehead feels tight.
“So, they have nothing on him? Leland is this innocent guy, and his neighbor, me, is going out of her mind for no reason?”
“That could be the case.” He sighs. Condescending.
The next time you call, he’s not going to call you back.
The helplessness I feel ignites my nerve endings, and sparks sizzle and race across bundles of neurons heading for my brainstem.