Gated Page 8

  Claire slipped quietly from the bed and headed for the kitchen, determined to slip into her domestic routine – brew coffee, make breakfast, read the news together, shower, go for a run – because the familiar patterns of their life together, she was convinced, would quiet his paranoia. Surely, she figured, if he could see that nothing has changed, could wrap himself up in a comforting sense of home, they would vanquish the monster beneath the bed. There would be no more car chases. No crazy talk of passwords and unseen bad guys in hot pursuit. Just their ordinary lives back. She would make a stand against this insidious foe. Not yet, frontal temporal dementia. You can’t have him yet. He’s mine.

  The smell of coffee woke him, as she expected it would. By the time he walked into the kitchen, still in his underwear, groggy and bed-headed, she was already flipping his southwestern omelet in the frying pan. He poured himself a cup of coffee as she sprinkled parsley over his eggs before sliding his plate across the kitchen island toward him.

  “Smells incredible, thanks babe,” he said, shoving a large forkful of cheese-filled egg into his mouth. “Listen, about last night, I-“

  “Sam,” she said, pouring her share of the eggs onto the griddle before dropping a handful of onions and green peppers on one half of the yellow circle. “Can I ask you for a big favor?”

  He looked at her skeptically before he sighed and resigned himself to what she knew to be the loving patience he always reserved for her. “Yes, dearest,” he said, a playful half smile on his face. “Anything for you, my angel.”

  She flipped her omelet over and then came around the island and took his hands into hers. “Can we have a normal day at home, today? And what I mean by that is: can we just forget about what happened last night and just be present, here, together? You know. Like we used to be, before the move and-”

  “And before the diagnosis,” he offered.

  She hesitated, not wanting to hurt him or make this about her, but it had to be said. It was what they both needed. “Yes, like before you got sick. Just a regular day. A fun day. Okay?”

  He took a sip of coffee and looked at her for a few seconds, as if contemplating his answer. He pulled her into his arms and they hugged. His embrace was all the answer she needed.

  “Your omelet’s burning,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Shit!” she said, running back to the stove and sliding the pan quickly off the burner. “I’m still going to eat it. I like my eggs chewy.”

  “Uh huh,” he said, giving her a wink. “So, how are we going to have fun today?”

  “Well,” she said, hopping on the bar stool next to him and diving into her breakfast with gusto. “I thought we would go for a run, come home and have sex, have a nice long nap and then go over to some new neighbors I met for dinner.”

  “Yes to the first three,” he said, already knowing it wasn’t up for negotiation. “Especially the second one. So down for that particular offering.”

  “I’m afraid they all come as a package deal, my angel,” Claire laughed, choking a little on her eggs.

  “I’m afraid to ask, but who are these neighbors? Are they as cool and swanky as Stephanie and Marc with a ‘C,” Sam asked, air-quoting the letter as he said it.

  Claire got up, grabbed their coffee cups and walked over to the pot and refilled them. “They couldn’t be more different. In fact, Stephanie Hall told me to stay away from them.”

  “Which of course has made you determined to find out why,” he said, sounding jaded at how well he knew his wife. She didn’t take offense. Her need to form her own opinions was something she knew he loved about her.

  “Of course. The Hershels. They own the house across the street, with that tacky fountain in the driveway.”

  Sam glanced out the kitchen window at the house. “Are they as tacky as that fountain?”

  “They’re older than us. In their late fifties or early sixties, I would guess. They seemed sweet enough. Marie and, shit, I cannot remember her husband’s name. Stephanie not only told me to stay away from them, she called Marie a bitch.”

  “Women are forever calling other women that,” Sam said.

  “It was the way she said it.”

  “How so?”

  “Like she feared her. Like she was threatened by her.”

  “Creepy,” said Sam flatly, seemingly disinterested in the topic.

  “She just seemed really angry. Like there is some big backstory between them.”

  He got up from his bar stool and stood behind hers. His hands slid over her breasts and his index fingers slowly circled her hardening nipples. “What about our backstory?” he purred into her ear. “Let’s skip the run.”

  Marie Hershel opened the door and before even saying hello to them, turned and yelled up the staircase directly behind her. “Keith, they’re here. Be a gentleman and get your old fanny down here.” She then turned back to Claire and Sam and held out her plump arms, grabbing them both for an awkward group hug. “I am so happy you both came. Come on in!”

  “This is for you,” Claire said, handing her a bottle of wine and a bouquet of roses she had picked from the bushes in their backyard. “Marie, this is my husband, Sam.”

  Marie took a few steps back and looked Sam up and down, as if he was something she was considering purchasing. She was dressed in a ‘60s-style house dress, lime green and covered with an orange and yellow floral print that made Claire dizzy. “So, you are the elusive Sam. Keith and I were beginning to wonder if you were real or a figment of your poor, lonely wife’s imagination. But here you are, a real live astronaut!”

  Sam was laughing, but shot Claire a sideways glance that she took as a bookmark for a later discussion they would have about why she had told the Hershels he worked for NASA. Had she? As she tried to remember, Keith Hershel came down the staircase wearing an oversized gray suit with black elbow patches and a bright blue bowtie with a paisley print. His white hair, still wet from a shower, was combed back and he smelt of soap and musky aftershave.

  “I’m not an astronaut,” Sam was saying to Marie, who ignored him in her exuberance to introduce the couple to her husband.

  “Keith, may I present our guests. You have met the lovely Claire, and this is her husband, Sam.”

  Keith shook their hands vigorously. “I hope you don’t have any dietary restrictions. I am the chef of the house and I should have asked, but I rolled the culinary dice. Usually people from the big city have wide-ranging palettes.”

  “Who? Us? No, you’re right, we’ll eat anything,” said Claire, following the couple into their living room, which smelled like vanilla candles, onions, rosemary and lamb. Unlike their house, the large living room was open to the kitchen. The room was defined by two massive floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled with what Claire quickly assessed had to be thousands of books.

  “Sit, sit, sit,” said Marie, motioning them to sit on a lemon-colored overstuffed sofa facing two blue suede chairs. Four martini glasses, a pewter shaker, a bottle of gin, a plate of citrus rinds and a bucket of ice sat atop a silver serving tray on a glass coffee table between them.

  “Don’t worry, it’s gin, not vodka,” assured Keith.

  “Keith, says vodka martinis are vulgar,” Marie said. “I have no opinion on the matter.”

  “I’m so sorry, but we don’t drink,” Sam said, as Keith vigorously shook the shaker before abruptly stopping, as if he’d been slapped hard across the face.

  “Oh, I see,” he said, with enough judgment to make Claire start to sweat. She imagined herself grabbing the perspiring shaker from Keith and downing the icy gin in a couple of clamoring, desperate gulps. I drink! You drink! We all drink, gin drinks! Yay!

  In what seemed like a second, Marie had gone to the kitchen and returned with a terribly disappointing two-liter bottle of warm, store-brand ginger ale.

  When they all had beverages in hand, Marie lifte
d hers higher than the rest. “A toast,” she said. “To learning as much as we can about our assuredly interesting new neighbors.”

  “And friends,” Keith added before they all clinked glasses.

  “Well,” said Claire, after sipping her soda, “you’ve set a high bar, Marie. Hopefully we are interesting enough.”

  Sam smiled politely, as if lost for words.

  “You’re too humble my dear,” said Marie. “The fact that you have become friends with Stephanie Hall already makes you interesting to me.”

  “Oh, why’s that?” Claire said, smiling broadly to hide a sudden feeling of defensiveness.

  “Marie, Claire isn’t here to engage in petty neighborhood gossip,” Keith said. “Claire, my wife can be a bit of a cad and you need to tell her to mind her business if she oversteps.”

  “Do you know the Halls well?” Sam asked, trying to turn the conversation from inquisitive to informative.

  “Stephanie Hall is a very, um, vocal member of our little community’s council. Our politics differ quite a bit. I don’t dislike her, if that’s what she told you-”

  “She honestly didn’t mention you,” Claire lied. Marie’s expression couldn’t hide her disbelief.

  “And what are your politics?” Sam asked.

  The question sat with the four of them for a few seconds before Marie attempted to diffuse the gravitas of the question with levity. “Are we talking politics before dinner? That’s a sure way to ruin a party.”

  They all laughed at this, everyone clearly relieved at the evaporation of an inexplicable, building tension. Claire, however, took the last sip of her flat ginger ale and decided to dive into the deep end of the pool.

  “My politics are basically screw this administration and this imbecilic president’s ass-backward policies. There, I said it.”

  Sam poured himself a second ginger ale. “You certainly did.”

  Marie looked pleased, like a fisherman with a tug on his line. “Now, see, I don’t think it’s so cut and dry. I agree with you that his naiveté is, at times, less than charming. But he does have admirable instincts.”

  Keith was violently shaking the next round of their martinis and everyone sat in silence rather than talk over the sound of breaking ice. As he poured, he meekly offered, “Well, I thought I was in charge of breaking the ice, but I see now that was only in the literal sense.”

  This time nobody laughed. The tennis match had commenced and all eyes were on Claire’s serve.

  “‘Admirable instincts?’ What would those be, exactly?”

  Marie held her replenished martini glass in front of her, looking through it as if looking for her response in the gin. “Well, take immigration,” she said. Sam put his hand on Claire’s knee. “And more generally his America-first policies. Here you have a once-great nation. A civilization so successful, a society so advanced, that it became a beacon of hope for other civilizations around the globe. A model that others tried and, time and time again, failed to emulate.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?” asked Claire.

  “Over time, yes.” Marie said, as if her point was obvious.

  “How exactly, Marie?” Sam asked, installing the patience in his voice for which he knew his wife was presumably incapable.

  “I think what my wife is saying is that when a civilization attains its apex, outsiders want in. The American dream is not sustainable. Over time, immigration is invasion,” Keith offered.

  “Exactly,” said Marie.

  “So, what’s for dinner?” Sam said, seeing the blush of anger bloom like roses across his wife’s face. “Smells good.”

  Based on the throw-back hippie garb the Hershels seemed to enjoy wearing, it had never occurred to Claire they might be right-wingers. Well, Claire, this is West Virginia. This shouldn’t come as a surprise. Just roll with it and don’t bring up politics again. Or religion.

  “So, Hershel, is that Jewish?” Claire asked, as Keith stood up but then paused, now unsure if this was, in fact, an ideal moment to invite them into the dining room.

  “Yes, but we don’t practice. In fact, we’re polytheistic. It suits us. There are way more gods to blame when things go wrong.”

  Sam managed a tepid, acknowledging giggle but Claire was just getting started. “So, wait, you worship multiple gods, like the Greeks?”

  “Worship is a pretty strong word. It’s more custom than faith. For us, anyway,” Keith said, before placing his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Dear, would you help me with the lamb?”

  “Of course,” Marie said cheerily. “It smells luscious, my darling.” She grabbed the shaker off the table and topped off her guests’ drinks. “Oh, dear, what am I doing? You don’t drink. Leave that right where it is and I’ll get you new glasses and more ginger ale. Don’t let it tempt you.”

  Is she screwing with me? She knows. She knows how much I want it.

  “Do you need help?” Sam offered obligatorily.

  “Heavens no!” Marie laughed, as if he had asked if she were a duck. “It’ll just be two shakes of a stick.”

  The Hershels shuffled off into the kitchen behind them. Claire glanced back to see Keith taking a large roasting pan from the oven and Marie busied herself with the table settings. When she had gauged the distance in relation to how quietly she needed to speak, she whispered to Sam, with a tinge of panic in her voice, “They’re Republicans. Shit!”

  Sam brushed her hair back from her face and gently turned her head to face his. “Sweetheart, it’s fine. We live in West Virginia, after all. It’s kind of to be expected, right? I don’t mind it. It’s civil discourse. Face to face. Not that echo chamber of similar ideas online. Maybe we can open our minds and learn something tonight. What do you think?”

  He was right, of course. And she was the one who had convinced him to do this in the first place.But if she was going to learn something from the Hershels, she was determined to teach them something, too. She didn’t have to say it. It was something Sam fully expected she’d do.

  “Dinner is ready!” Marie yelled from the dining room area, on the far side of the open kitchen.

  The Sturgises made their way to the table, where Marie had pulled chairs out for them and poured them new glasses of flat ginger ale. Although Claire already knew she didn’t agree with their politics, she had a hard time understanding why she didn’t like the Hershels. They were polite, welcoming and had undoubtedly gone out of their way to make a delicious meal Claire knew was not as simple as her hosts were making it look. In that moment, she decided to go easy on these otherwise kind people. They were, after all, neighbors they would see all the time. No sense making future run-ins awkward.

  Keith walked out the rack of lamb on a bone white china serving platter. The meat was playfully surrounded by sprigs of thyme and rosemary, and coated in a sugary glaze of vinegar and mint.

  “Wow!” gushed Claire. “My compliments to the chef.”

  “You haven’t even tried it yet, dear,” said Marie. “Maybe you’ll detest it.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” said Sam, as Keith returned to the table with a plate of asparagus and a bowl full of couscous and cranberries. “It all looks heavenly.”

  Marie filled wine glasses with a burgundy for herself and Keith, and then tumblers with ice water for everyone, before taking her seat alongside her husband.

  “This time I would like to make a toast,” Sam said. Everyone raised their glasses expectantly. “To our new neighbors and friends. You can never have too many of them.”

  Everyone clinked glasses, but Marie held back, a doubtful look spreading across her face. Claire studied her face closely. Is she actually pondering that sentiment?

  She was.

  “Well, now, I don’t know if that’s true,” she said, as Keith passed the bowls of food around the table and then stood and began carving the steaming meat. “I�
�m afraid that takes us back to our previous discussion. It is entirely possible to have too many neighbors. Take chain migration, for example.”

  Claire reflexively reached for the wine glass she did not have and resisted shooting Sam, who was nervously moving food around his plate with his fork, a sideways glance.

  “Porous borders invite many would-be friends into the country. This is where I don’t agree with our President. They’re certainly not all rapists and murderers. But they all want something.”

  “Yes,” Claire said, who wanted a glass of wine so badly she was nauseous. “Freedom, Marie. They want freedom.”

  Keith, finished with his carving duty, sat down and began spooning squash into his plate. “Well, that isn’t always the case. Take Mexico, for example. There is freedom in Mexico.”

  “I think Claire means economic freedom,” Sam said, in reluctant defense of his wife.

  “Sam, you don’t have to clarify what I said. I also meant freedom,” Claire snapped, feeling the anger she felt in the living room returning. “Marie, is this why you want the wall around the Village to stay up? You’re afraid this neighborhood will be overwhelmed with people the association deems as undesirable?”

  Silence enveloped the table, like a power failure in a movie theater. The clinking of utensils on the china did little to fill the auditory void.

  After several moments, Keith stammered, “Oh, my, my, Claire, how rude of me, your ginger ales have no ice.” He pushed his chair back, went to the freezer and came back with a frozen steel tray of cubes, which he cracked by lifting the tray’s frost-covered metal lever.

  “Thank you,” Claire managed half-heartedly, as she used her fingers to place two shattered pieces of ice in her glass.

  “Did Stephanie Hall tell you that?” Marie asked.

  “Yes, she did. Personally, I think gated communities are silly. We went to Grover last night for dinner and it was lovely. What is the threat? I don’t get what all the guards and cameras are for, I really don’t.”