The New Neighbor

Chapter 9

Saturday Night

Karen went to bed at ten-thirty, but lay awake for over two hours thinking about what she'd done that afternoon. Once, she'd gotten up to take from her jewelry box the tiny piece of silver Lorelle had given her. She'd looked at it for several minutes, fondled it, then put it away and returned to bed.

Now that it was over, she hated herself for it, but at the time she'd felt like a junkie in need of a fix. The house had been so quiet, so tense, and all she'd wanted was to feel better.

As she'd tried hard to keep herself busy in the uneasy silence, Karen could not stop remembering how good Lorelle had made her feel Friday afternoon. She remembered the orgasms, one after another, first touching her like feathers, then hitting like trains. She'd never known she could be made to feel that way, that she could achieve such intense and physically rocking pleasure.

When she first started baking the banana nut bread, she told herself it was for the kids because they loved it so much, but deep down inside herself where she seldom looked, she knew it was for another reason. It was an excuse to go over to Lorelle's.

And she had. She'd allowed it to happen again.

Now she lay in bed hating herself for it. But she didn't hate herself as much as she had the first time. And this time, she found herself hating George just a little for never making her feel that way.

Karen wondered as she lay in bed gently touching herself if she would hate herself even less the next time. She left her hand between her legs but feigned sleep when George came in, hoping he wouldn't speak to her.

Seconds after George had settled beneath the covers, Monroe jumped up onto the bed, purring and prodding the covers between George and Karen for a comfortable place to curl up.

George tolerated the cat the rest of the day in the rest of the house, but he'd told Karen countless times that Monroe was to be shut out of the bedroom when they turned in for the night.

It had been a long, bad day, cold – inside the house as well as out – and irritating. He knew part of the reason was the guilt, shame and confusion he felt about what had happened in their bedroom the night before. But he didn't know what was wrong with Karen. He'd hoped she would try to snap him out of it and cheer him up as she usually did when he was feeling low. But she'd hardly even spoken to him and that irritated him. Then she'd gone over to Lorelle's for a couple of hours and that made him nervous. What if Lorelle was the kiss and tell type?

Guess what your husband did to me last night… on your bedroom floor… while you were asleep.

After a while he realized that was ridiculous. Lorelle lived across the street from them, for Christ's sake. It wasn't likely she was going to shit where she ate. But when Karen returned, she'd been even colder and more distant, and that only made him feel crankier.

The cat on the bed was the last straw.

Usually, George swept Monroe up and put him out in the hall. Not this time.

He jerked his foot from under the covers, and kicked the cat off the bed. Monroe yowled as he became airborne and his claws tore at the carpet when he landed. Karen sat bolt upright in bed as George chased Monroe around the room, finally cornering him under the bed. Mindless of the scratches he would no doubt sustain, George groped under the bed as Monroe hissed and spat, finally closing his fist on a clump of fur and dragging the squawling cat out, carrying him by his fur to the door and throwing him hard into the hall.

"Dammit, George!" Karen snapped, getting out of bed.

"I've told you, that cat does not belong in here at night."

"Well, you don't have to do that!"

"Maybe it'll teach him to stay out of here altogether."

"God." She put on her robe and went after Monroe as George got back into bed.

He knew he was not going to sleep, though. Awful as it sounded, knocking Monroe around a little had actually felt good and he was pumped with adrenaline. There was even a slight stirring between his legs.

Karen returned a moment later and grabbed her pillows.

"What're you doing?" George asked.

"I don't like the idea of sleeping with someone who abuses animals."

"Then don't bother leaving." He got out of bed. "I will." He slipped on a pair of pants, a T-shirt, got a blanket from the closet, and took his pillow with him.

In the living room, he tossed the pillow and blanket onto the sofa and turned on the television. Saturday Night Live was just getting over and it occurred to George that Jen and Robby usually stayed up for it, but they'd gone to bed a couple of hours ago.

Everyone seemed to be behaving oddly.

Not at all tired, George went to the kitchen to make himself a rum and Coke, but decided to hold the Coke. Back in the living room, he peered idly out the front window and was surprised to see Dylan Garry across the street, shuffling down the sidewalk toward his house. He was walking strangely, almost dragging his feet, hands in his coat pockets, head hung low. Was he… limping? Swaying? Maybe he was drunk. Probably. George wondered if he'd get into trouble when he got home. As far as George was concerned, a teenager drinking was no big deal, not when he could be out snorting coke or crack or -

Beyond Dylan, there was a soft light in Lorelle's bedroom window where she stood holding the curtains open. The light shimmered through the flowing sleeves of the sheer robe she wore. She was watching Dylan as he swaggered down the sidewalk, then she disappeared a moment, returning with a lighted candle which she set on the window sill.

The candlelight illuminated the black and red teddy she wore and flickered on her face as she smiled across the street at George. She reached down and lifted something… a telephone. She punched in a number.

She's calling here! George thought, hurrying to the telephone in the kitchen, ready to pick up, so the ring wouldn't wake anyone.

Barely half a ring sounded before he snapped the receiver to his ear.

"Hel-hello?"

"George," she purred. "You're still up."

"Yeah, I-yuh, I couldn't sleep."

"I can't sleep either. Why don't we not sleep together."

"Look, Lorelle, last night… what happened… I don't know how you got in here, but I'm not sure I appreciated it. I mean, I'm married."

"Seems to me a married man should be able to get from his wife what you got from me last night. But I don't think that's the case with you. Is it?"

He sighed, rubbed his eyes hard with his fingers. "I'm sorry, Lorelle. I just… it was nice, but I just can't – “

"I have a vibrator, George. I'd like you to fuck me in the ass while I stick the vibrator in my cunt." She sounded as if she were telling him what color she'd like to repaint her house. "Won't that feel good, George?"

His mouth moved, but he didn't speak.

"You think about it, George. But I don't like to be kept waiting. I'll leave the candle in the window. When it burns out, you've missed your chance. It's a short candle, George."

She hung up.

George paced the kitchen, poured some more rum, and finished it off. It burned in his belly and spread over him like a hot flash as he rubbed his temples, thinking… thinking…

George turned and Monroe hissed at him from the kitchen doorway. When he stepped forward, growling an obscenity as he pulled his leg back to kick the cat, anticipating the pleasure of his foot's impact with the animal's small head, Monroe spun around and disappeared.

Taking one more quick drink, he went to the hall closet to find his jacket.

Too many souls to eat… too many souls to eat… too many souls -

– Robby was ripped from his sleep for the third time that night, his sheets soggy with perspiration. It was a few minutes after four in the morning.

He'd sneaked a Thermos of vodka into his room earlier that evening, hoping to drink himself numb, but it hadn't worked as well as he'd hoped.

The man was a lunatic, that was all. Had to be. He wasn't talking about Lorelle, he was just… babbling. But that didn't make him – or his words – any less disturbing. The whole encounter had been so surreal, so much like something out of a bad horror movie, that Robby couldn't bring himself to tell anyone about it, although he knew he probably should. But who? Dad was in no mood to listen to him, and Mom had looked even worse that evening when she got back from Lorelle's. When Robby asked her if she felt all right, she'd dismissed it as the flu and said she'd take some aspirin and go to bed early.

Robby had gone to bed early, too, hoping to drink himself to sleep. But he kept waking suddenly, covered with sweat, from one nightmare after another. He'd opened the window earlier, hoping to cool himself off, but it hadn't worked because now the top sheet clung to him like a second skin and his chest heaved as he stared wide-eyed into the darkness of his bedroom. Groaning, he reached over and flicked on his lamp and -

– Lorelle leaned over him and whispered, "Hello, Robby."

"Jesus Chrrr – where did you – how did you get in – “

She placed her fingertips over his mouth and hissed, "Ssshhh," as she slid one knee onto the bed. She was naked and her breasts swayed above him as she ran her hand over his sweaty chest. Leaning forward, she licked his belly and chest, murmuring, "Mmmm, I love sssweat.” She took his cock into her mouth and silenced all of Robby's questions.

It made no sense. She couldn't just walk into their locked house at four in the morning, not without someone hearing her… unless -

– I'm dreaming, Robby thought, that's all… dreaming…

He forgot about the man with the cane and the strange things he'd said. In a few minutes, he even forgot that Lorelle shouldn't be there. He knew he wasn't dreaming because dreams just weren't this vivid, didn't feel this good. He lost himself in what she was doing.

Robby came three times. He even cried out once or twice, certain someone had heard him, but no one came to his door. The fourth time, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, and didn't wake until just before noon.