The Good Neighbor Page 9

  “Oh. Listen, man, this is a hell of a house. Really something.” “Don’t you just love it?”

  The Good Neighbor 87

  “Yeah. Looks like we finally got that country place, huh?” Michael grinned at her, delighted. Francie smiled uneasily. “It’s big. And cold. Who lived here before?” he went on.

  “We don’t know,” said Francie. “I mean, we sort of know. It was a family called the Musgroves. But they haven’t lived here in a long time.”

  “Place is clean,” said Michael. “Doesn’t look like it’s been empty.”

  “The bank said there was a caretaker. Someone’s been keeping it up for them, in case they ever sold it.”

  “It suits you. Couldn’t see why you ever moved to New York in the first place.”

  “It was a whim,” said Francie. “It was good for a while. But I’m done with it now. I think I can be happy here. I can really . . . open up.”

  “And you’re happy with Colt?”

  Francie was startled. “Of course I am, honey,” she said. She reached out and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her brother ’s ear. “Why on earth would you think I wasn’t?”

  “I just wondered, that’s all,” said Michael. “He’s so . . . edgy, I guess. Really businessy. He never really has anything nice to say about anything, didja ever notice? A real negative type. Tell the truth, I didn’t see you ending up with a guy like him, either.” He lowered his voice on this last thought, looking over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. They were—sounds of shuffling feet and grunting came from the front of the house, where Colt and the movers were struggling with a sofa. “You’re really sensitive and artistic, and he’s . . .”

  “I know,” said Francie. “Businessy. But we complement each other, honey. You don’t want to marry someone who’s just like you. You want them to fill in your missing pieces. Kind of like a jigsaw puzzle.”

  “I guess so,” said Michael.

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  “Don’t worry about me,” said Francie. “Your big sister can take care of herself. I was wondering about you, though. Is there some thing on your mind? Something bugging you?”

  “Little help!” called Colt from the living room. “Hello! Francie!

  Mike!”

  Michael shuddered. “I hate it when he calls me ‘Mike,’ ” he said. “Makes me feel like one of his poker buddies.”

  “Mikey? Was there something?”

  Michael looked at the floor, then around at the walls. Francie knew this expression all too well; whatever it was, he was afraid to tell her. She waited.

  “Not now,” he muttered. “Later.”

  “We’ll talk,” said Francie. “Gimme a kiss.” She pulled her brother ’s ear to bend him down to her, and they bussed lightly. Then they went back out to the front of the house.

  In the living room, they came upon Colt, who was crawling on his hands and knees, his nose six inches from the floor.

  “Lose something?” Francie asked.

  “My charm,” said Colt. “It just fell off. The chain broke.”

  Michael guffawed. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “You carry a good-luck charm?”

  Colt glared at him. “Yes,” he said, daring him to make some thing of it.

  “They all carry them at his office,” Francie told her brother. “They believe in them.”

  “Of course we believe in them,” said Colt. “That’s because they work.”

  “Are you sure you lost it in here, honey?”

  “Francie, if I was sure where I lost it, then it wouldn’t be lost anymore, now would it?” Colt said exasperatedly.

  “There’s no reason to get snappy,” Francie told him. “I was just asking.”

  They looked high and low, but found nothing. Colt’s charm was gone.

  8‌

  Survival Of The Fittest

  The movers, not wishing to be stranded in Pennsylvania, worked fast under the threat of the looming storm, finishing just

  as flurries began to thicken the air—not the storm itself, but only the advance guard. The two men accepted a wad of cash from Colt and pulled out of the driveway in a hurry. Though it was not yet twilight, it had already gone dim inside. Shadows crept out from the walls and gently spread themselves across the floor. Al ready he could hear the creaks of the old wood as the house ad justed to the dropping temperature. How many snowstorms had this house survived? he wondered. A hundred? A thousand? Was there a limit to how many a house could endure?

  “Power on?” he called, as he came back inside, slapping snow off his shoulders.

  “I don’t know,” Francie answered him, from somewhere.

  “Of course you don’t,” he muttered. “You’d just sit in the dark until someone came along and turned the lights on for you.”

  “What?” “Nothing!”

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  Colt felt along the wall until he came to a switch, and was grati fied to be hit with a splash of light from a bare bulb that hung by wires from the ceiling. “Yes, it’s on,” he called back. Other switches were flicked in other rooms, and the three of them came together in the kitchen, lost in its massiveness, shivering, grateful at least for the brightness.

  “What kinda heat you got in this place?” Michael asked. “Electric baseboard,” said Colt. “Plus fireplaces. A lot of fire

  places.”

  “Oh, let’s make a fire!” said Francie. “Please? There’s firewood in the basement. I saw a stack of it when we came through with the real estate agent.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. Okay, you,” said Colt, pointing to Michael, “go downstairs and get some wood. Bring it up to the liv ing room.”

  “By myself?” Michael said. He turned and looked at the base ment door. Opening it, he peered down the rickety wooden stairs into the blackness. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, dubious.

  “Don’t worry, there’s nothing down there,” Colt said. “Ha ha.” “Colt, you help him,” said Francie.

  “Why? It’s a one-man job. It’s easy.” “He’s scared.”

  “I’m not scared, Sissie,” said Michael. “Relax.” He flicked the switch on the wall and tromped down the stairway, which was made of nothing more than two-by-sixes; they could hear it quake under his weight like a leaf in a thunderstorm. Colt smirked at Francie.

  “If this was a movie, this is where he would get eaten by the monster,” he said.

  “Shut up,” said Francie. “You really are being an asshole.”

  “I am not,” Colt protested. “Or if I am, it’s working. He helped us unload, didn’t he? First honest work he’s done in years. Maybe I’m rubbing off on him.”

  “Rubbing him the wrong way is more like it.”

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  “Fine. Whatever it takes.”

  Francie moved around the kitchen, running her hands over the curved lines of the ancient refrigerator. It was silent. She bent down, reached behind it, and plugged it in. It rattled and whirred into life. Opening it, she frowned at its emptiness. “What are we going to do about dinner?” she asked. “We forgot to bring food.”

  “Order in,” Colt said automatically.

  “From where, dear husband? We’re in the country, you know.” “I dunno. There must be some Chinese around here or some

  thing.”

  “I don’t think so, Colt. There might be a place in town, but that’s miles away.”

  “Yeah, but . . . well, you can get delivery anywhere, can’t you?” Francie was dismayed to note that there was a hint of panic in his voice. Was it only occurring to him now that there were places in the world that didn’t fall into someone’s delivery radius? she

  wondered.

  “Look in the phone book,” she said.

  “We don’t have a phone book. We don’t have a phone, for that matter.” Colt felt in his pocket and came up with his cell phone. Flicking it on, he held it to his ear and cursed. “Out of range. I thought I had roaming on this thing.”

&
nbsp; “That’s an extra feature. You have to sign up for it.” “Well, thanks for telling me now, Ma Bell.”

  “There’s a supermarket in town,” said Francie, sighing with exag gerated patience.

  “All right, I’ll go,” said Colt glumly. “Got any cash? I gave all mine to the movers.”

  “No, I’ll go.”

  Colt was startled. “What? That’s crazy. It’s snowing out.” “Colt, we need food. And I’m better at driving in snow than

  you are.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is,” Francie said patiently, knowing she could win this

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  one. “I grew up driving. You grew up riding the subway. We’ve had this argument before. Remember?”

  “Oh, all right,” said Colt. “If you’re so determined.”

  “I just want to do something, that’s all. I want to explore a little.” “At night? With a blizzard coming? Fine. Be my guest.”

  “Boy, it’s creepy down there,” said Michael, coming back up the stairs with an armload of logs. “And this wood is pretty ancient. It’s like rotten or something.”

  “I’m leaving,” said Francie. “See you guys in a bit.”

  “Where you going, Sissie?” Michael asked, a note of alarm in his voice.

  “Sissie going to da soopeymarket,” Colt said. “To buy Mikey some foodies.”

  “Colt!” Francie said.

  “Just messing around,” he said, hearing the broken glass in her voice. “Trying to inject a little levity into the situation. Jeez.”

  “You want me to come, too?” asked Michael.

  “No, sweetie, you stay here. I’ll be fine. You can help Colt.” “Help Colt with what?”

  “We make fire,” said Colt. “Eat buffalo. Do war dance.” “You’re acting like an idiot,” said Francie.

  “He’s not acting,” said Michael.

  “Good-bye, boys,” Francie said, pulling the keys from Colt’s jacket. “Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

  ❚ ❚ ❚

  Michael watched with a sense of grim foreboding as Francie pulled out of the driveway in the Camaro, disappearing into the snowflakes that swirled along the road as though stirred up by the skirts of in visible dancers. Then he turned to watch the spectacle of Colt try ing to light a fire. It was abundantly clear to him that this was a man who bought his fire prepackaged, just like everything else. In a half-assed approximation of every Hollywood cowboy movie

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  he’d ever seen, Colt had built a kind of log pyramid on the grate, and he was now holding a lighter to it, waiting for it to catch. He burned his thumb and stuck it in his mouth. When he caught Michael trying not to grin, he threw the lighter at him.

  “Here,” he said around his thumb. “You think you’re so smart, you try it.”

  “Kindling, dude,” said Michael. “You need kindling.” “What’s that?”

  Michael snorted. “Tell me you’re joking,” he said. “You don’t know what kindling is? Didn’t you ever go camping when you were a kid?”

  “I was too busy,” said Colt. “I skipped childhood and went straight into my twenties.”

  “Sucks to be you.” “Sucks more to be you.”

  Michael shredded some bark off the logs and broke up a couple of the smaller pieces. Within moments he’d created a blaze that grew rapidly, filling the room with the sound of snapping fingers. Colt nursed his seared digit and stared at the flames in a state of sulky hypnosis.

  “Boy Scouts,” said Michael. “I can build a rabbit trap, too.” Colt didn’t answer.

  “Seriously, your dad didn’t ever take you camping?” Michael asked.

  “Nope,” said Colt. “Why not?” “Because he’s dead.”

  “Whoa. Bummer. I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t notice he wasn’t at our wedding? Or my mother, for that matter?”

  “Your wedding was a long time ago, dude. I was what, sixteen?

  So you’re like an orphan?”

  “At my age you’re not called an orphan. You just don’t have par ents anymore.”

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  “Right. But did they die when you were young?” “Yes,” said Colt. “You could say that.”

  “That’s too bad, man.”

  Colt didn’t answer. They stood in awkward silence for a few moments. Michael sighed.

  “Well, unless we’re gonna sing ‘Kumbaya,’ I’m gonna get turned on,” he said. From somewhere within the folds of his pon cho, he produced a thick, bent joint. He wet one end and lit the other, inhaling deeply; then he offered it to Colt, who waved it away.

  “How long you been smoking that stuff, anyway?” he asked. “Thirteen years,” Michael said, exhaling a cloud of smoke in the

  direction of the fire. “More or less. I think.” “That long? Jesus.”

  “It was the thing to do, back when I started.” “It was the thing to do when you were twelve?”

  Michael shrugged and took another toke. “What can I say? I ran with an advanced crowd.”

  “Advanced, my ass. Your brains probably look like a marshmal low by now. You ever think about what that stuff does to you?”

  “You mean to tell me you’ve never taken drugs? Not once?” Michael asked. “Not even coke? I thought all you financial types spent your lunch hour doing lines in the executive washroom. It’s in all the movies.”

  Colt guffawed. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve done coke. Kid stuff.” “Kid stuff?”

  “It’s what all the junior types do. To make themselves feel like big shots.” He shook his head. “It was the eighties,” he said. “What can I say? I only did it a few times.”

  “Well, then, you’ve got no room to lecture me. Besides, pot helps me think.”

  “How can smoking pot help you think?” Michael shrugged. “It focuses me,” he said.

  Colt snorted. “Please,” he said. “That stuff slows you down, if

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  anything. You have to think in terms of survival. You think you could defend yourself if you were stoned?”

  Michael looked around. “Defend myself against what?” he asked, laughing.

  “Saber-toothed tigers. Woolly mammoths. Enemy attack. You wanna get ahead, you have to think like a caveman. Survival of the fittest.”

  “Man, you are a caveman. We’re not under attack, dude. We’re like right here in your living room.”

  “Yeah, but I’m talking about survival of the fittest.”

  Colt began dancing around Michael, throwing punches at his face, pulling them at the last second.

  “Cut it out,” said Michael nervously.

  “You think our species got ahead because everyone sat around getting messed up all the time? You have to be ready. You never know when someone’s gonna try and steal your woman. Oh, wait, I forgot. You don’t have a woman. There was just . . . Yolanda. Yolanda with the hairy armpits.”

  “Quit it, man,” said Michael, stepping back from him. “She did not have hairy armpits! And you’re harshing my buzz!”

  “Come on. Seriously. You ever box?” “No, and I’m not starting tonight!”

  “I boxed a little in college. I could show you a few things. Throw some with me. Come on, tough guy. Let me have one. Move around like this.”

  Colt shuffled his feet rapidly and hit Michael lightly in the stomach a couple of times. They were only butterfly blows, but Michael wasn’t ready for them, and he was startled. “Jesus,” he said, a note of anger sounding in his voice. “Knock that shit off, will you?”

  “That’s it. Get mad. Get pissed off.” Colt kept moving around him, landing a couple more light blows. But Michael refused to engage him. He stared steadfastly ahead at some invisible point on the wall, gritting his teeth with each punch. “You gotta get mad if

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  you wanna be a killer. You gotta get mad if you wanna be a killer. You gotta get mad if you wanna be
a killer.”

  “I don’t wanna be a killer!” Michael shouted. “Hit me!” said Colt.

  Michael, breathing hard, swung suddenly and wildly at Colt, a haymaker punch that he ducked easily, almost without trying.

  “You’re telegraphing,” said Colt. “I saw that punch coming be fore you even threw it. You gotta be sneaky, like this.”

  He came up from underneath and stuck his fist somewhere in Michael’s poncho, a little harder this time. The air came out of his brother-in-law in a gentle whuff.

  “You asshole,” said Michael. “That hurt!” “That’s it! Get mad!”

  “I don’t wanna get mad!” Michael said, his voice high with panic now. “I wanna mellow out!”

  “Here,” said Colt, “I’ll give you an easy one. Now get out of the way.”

  He sent a slow punch at Michael’s face, but even at half-speed it was too fast for the pudgy younger man, and it caught him squarely on the nose. Blood spurted out from under Colt’s knuck les as Michael dropped to his knees, as if answering a call to prayer.

  “Oh, fuck!” he said into his hands. “My nose!” Oops, thought Colt.

  In his head, he heard his father ’s voice: Way to go, Coltie boy. Way to show him who’s boss.

  ❚ ❚ ❚

  It took Colt several minutes to locate a roll of paper towels amid the chaos of the move. He brought them back into the living room, eyeing his brother-in-law with a mixture of disdain and re gret. Michael was lying in front of the fire now, hands over his face.

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  “Here,” said Colt, handing him the paper towels. “Take these.

  We don’t have any ice yet. Fridge hasn’t been on long enough.” Michael grudgingly took the towels and held them to his nose. “Tilt your head back and breathe through your mouth.”