The Good Neighbor - Bettes Kimberley A. - Страница 38

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It crossed my mind then how cruel it was to have children. I mean, we all know what’s going to happen. We’re all going to die. And we still choose to bring kids into the world, knowing that one day, we will leave them parentless. It was a cruel, sick thing to do. But necessary, I suppose. We had to keep the human race going, and the only way to do that was to impose this horrible pain on our children.

I wondered then if Jill and I would ever be able to have a child of our own. We’d been trying for so long that I was starting to think it would never happen. I wouldn’t tell Jill that’s how I felt. She remained hopeful about the whole thing. I didn’t want to dash her dreams of being a mother.

Besides, I had dreams of being a father. I wanted a baby just as much as she did, but it was just starting to seem hopeless. I hadn’t given up on the idea yet, but I could feel it coming.

66 Carla

As I knitted with Hazel, I was content. Probably more so than I’d ever been. It was amazing just how comfortable it was to be in her company. Maybe the knitting added to the level of comfort I was experiencing. It was a relaxing hobby. I couldn’t wait to show Owen what I’d learned.

Eventually, the conversation took a turn toward Owen. I told Hazel he had a cold. Hazel, the kind soul that she is, promised to fix that.

She led me into the kitchen where we began preparing some chicken soup. Watching her cook, I believed it wasn’t so much the homemade aspect that would make Owen better, but the amount of love she put into it. After all, it wasn’t soup from a can. This was the real deal. Guaranteed to make someone well.

I enjoyed cooking with her. She was funny, kind, and so sincere. I felt bad now that I’d lived across the street for two weeks without spending time with her. That was two weeks that I’d missed out on. Our relationship, however long it would turn out to be, was now going to be two weeks less.

I pushed that aside and promised myself to not worry about it. The important thing was that I was visiting now, and I was enjoying her company. And I believed she was enjoying mine.

“I could make you some home remedies to take to him, if you like,” she offered.

“This ought to do the trick. If it doesn’t, then we’ll turn to the home remedies.”

She laughed and nodded. I was sure in her day, people didn’t scoff at the home healing like they did now. Back then, your options were limited. You had an ailment, you made the cure.

Hazel’s house soon filled with the aroma of chicken soup. I remained by her side, helping when possible, and memorizing this wonderful chapter in my life.

67 Andy

I turned onto Hewitt Street, feeling as drained as I possibly could. My eyes were still burning, but I think the burn came more from weariness now than from crying.

I was longing to sleep. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and hold Jill and sleep for days. I knew this wasn’t going to happen, though. Jill was at work, and I had no doubt that sleep would fail to find me again, just as it had the last couple of days.

I slowly drove past Carla’s house, looking for anything out of the ordinary and admiring the fence that surely Owen had something to do with. He sure was looking out for her. Jill and I had been waiting for a woman to come along and erase the memories of Holly. It was more than time for Owen to move on. We were so thankful that Carla had moved in.

I pulled into my driveway and parked the car. I didn’t get out yet. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and called Jill’s cell. The call went straight to voice mail, so I left a message telling her how much I loved her. I told her I was finally home, and would no doubt be asleep by the time she came home. I begged her to lay with me when she returned. I ended the call telling her I loved her.

I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and rubbed my face roughly with my hands. I yawned. I opened the door and stepped out of the car. As I did, I glanced across the street and saw Jenson dragging one of those heavy bags to his car.

I closed the door on the car and jogged across the street to where Jenson had just pulled the trash bag off the steps.

“Let me get that for you,” I said. Without protesting, the old man let go of the bag.

“Thank you,” he said. I hadn’t talked to him much, but even I could detect a strange tone in his voice.

As I carried the bag to the trunk of his car, I asked, “Is something wrong?”

He hesitated. After looking up and down both sides of the street, he replied, “I’m not sure. Something just feels wrong about the day. Do you feel it?” he asked, searching my eyes.

I stood there, concentrating hard to see if I could feel what Jenson was feeling. I didn’t feel anything. Maybe it was because my emotional well had run dry. My senses were numb. Maybe it was because there was nothing to feel. Maybe I did feel it, but was so exhausted, it wasn’t registering with me. Either way, after several long seconds, I told him I didn’t feel anything.

“Huh. Maybe it’s just me. I better get these quilts over to Am Vets. Thanks for loading them for me. These bags seem to get heavier and heavier.”

I told him I was happy to help and I headed to Owen’s. I turned at the top of the steps and waved to Jenson as he drove away. I shook my head as I recalled how we’d thought he was capable of murder.

But it wasn’t such a far-fetched notion. There were a lot of motives for murder. Greed was the biggest. Also, there was love. After love was revenge. And who could forget plain old crazy. Sometimes, people just wanted to kill, with or without a reason. There were so many cases of murder involving people from such a wide variety of backgrounds who killed for so many reasons that it was absolutely impossible to gauge who could or couldn’t be apt to snap. One day, you’re delivering pizzas; the next day, you’re delivering pizzas, shooting whoever answers the door. It happens. Every single day.

What I’d learned studying serial killers was that anyone was capable of anything at anytime.

68 Jenson

I drove away, watching the young man at the top of the steps in the rearview mirror. He seemed like such a nice boy. Heck, it was silly to call him a boy, but that’s what he was to me. A boy. Both he and the other guy were both such nice young men.

As I watched him standing there waving to me, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Not just regular wrong, but really wrong. My hackles had been up all morning. It could’ve been the low clouds. It could’ve been the unsettling quiet. Heck, it could’ve been all in my head. But I didn’t think it was.

As I turned left at the end of the street, I thought back to the one other time that I’d had the feeling that something was wrong.

It had started out a beautiful day. There was a cloudless blue sky, a gentle breeze, and the air was thick with the smell of grease and gasoline.

I was a newlywed young man, working at a roadside gas station located smack dab in the middle of nowhere. I was working on the engine of an old car, doing whatever I could to push aside that awful feeling of wrongness. I’d skipped breakfast because it was impossible to put food into the twisted knot that was once my stomach. I was later thankful for missing the meal.

With my head under the hood, I hadn’t seen it coming. I’d counted my blessings many times throughout the years, and missing this occurrence was always on the list.

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