The Good Neighbor (28 page)

Flebberman sniffed proudly. “Hell, yeah,” he said. “I can fix any thing that don’t breathe. And some things that do. And she runs better when she’s warmed up, anyway. She needs any new parts, I can pull ’em outa the yard. You know I gotta junkyard?”

“A . . . a junkyard? No, I didn’t know.”

“C’mere,” Flebberman said. “Lemme show ya while she’s clearin’ her throat.”

Francie followed him back onto the porch, which wrapped around the house on three sides. Stepping onto the side that was hidden from the road, Flebberman waved an arm expan sively, and Francie saw a vast area behind the house that was covered in piles of snow, with the dismembered limbs and tor sos of rusted machines peeking through. An access road led to it from the far side. There was a sign, facing the road, which she couldn’t read.

“Flebberman and Sons Used Auto Parts and Wrecking Yard,” said Flebberman helpfully. “I got five acres of dead cars down there. Plus all kinds of other stuff. You name it, I probly got it. This is where old machines come to die.” He grinned.

“My goodness,” said Francie, genuinely impressed. “You would never know this was here.”

“Naw. I keep it out of sight of the road. Everybody needs a junkyard, but nobody likes to look at one. I been buyin’ people’s junk since I was just outa high school. An’ we got this place pretty

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cheap, ’cause it was already in the fambly. I did wanna turn it into a used car lot at one point in time, but . . .” Flebberman’s words trailed off. “Never got around to it, I guess.”

“There’s always time,” said Francie. Flebberman looked at her.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess.”

“Well. How much do you want for that truck?” He pursed his lips. “How’s five hundred sound?”

Francie nearly laughed out loud. She had been prepared to offer two thousand.

“Five hundred is fine,” she said. “If a personal check is all right.” “Hell, yes,” said Flebberman. “A personal check is fine.”

“It still has our New York address on it. Is that okay?”

“It ain’t like I don’t know where you live,” Flebberman said.

They went around to the front of the house again. Francie took a check from her wallet and filled it out on the quivering hood of the still-running pickup. Flebberman looked at it in disbelief and tucked it in his pocket.

“Anything ever goes wrong with it, just bring it on up here,” he said effusively. “I can give you parts at cost, no prollem.”

“You’re very kind,” Francie said. “And, Mr. Flebberman . . .” “You can call me Randy.”

“Randy. I am very sorry about that episode with my husband this morning. I’m serious about not letting him remove the ceme tery. I just wanted you to know that.”

Flebberman nodded, shuffling one foot in the snow. “Yuh,” he said. “Good. Okay.”

“We didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. Sometimes Coltrane makes up his mind about things without really talking them over with me first.”

“Yuh. Well, I know how that is.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at the house.

“I don’t want you to worry. Really. I’m not going to let him do anything that would anger you, or . . . dishonor your family.”

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At that phrase Flebberman drew himself upright and met her gaze frankly.

“That’s it,” he said. “That’s just what it is. You hit the nail on the head there. Dishonor.”

“Yes. Well, just so you know I understand. And I’m on your side.”

Flebberman nodded, convinced. “Sit in there, I’ll show ya how to get this thing goin’,” he said.

Francie got in the driver ’s side and Flebberman slid in next to her. The interior of the cab was misty with a strange gasoline- flavored haze. Flebberman turned on the radio and fiddled with the volume. Country music blared through one tiny speaker somewhere in the dashboard.

“Other speaker don’t work,” he said. “I can fix that up for ya.

But this is a good radio. Gets both kinds of music.” “Both kinds?”

“Country and western.”

Flebberman grinned at her. Francie laughed; she had to stop herself from crying with relief. He likes me, she thought. I will be long.

“There’s yer clutch,” he said. “Go ahead and push ’er in.”

Francie did so, and the truck began to coast down the driveway toward the road. When she tried to put it into first, however, she found that nothing happened. Alarmed, with the truck picking up speed, she asked, “What do I do?”

“Wiggle it hard, then slam it over to the side. It ain’t so much backwards as it is sideways. Sorta.”

She did as she was told and the truck bounced to a halt, engine roaring, Flebberman bracing himself on the dashboard.

“It’s a li’l embarrassin’,” he said. “This was the first transmis sion I ever did myself. It ain’t quite up to snuff.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Francie said. “It does give it a unique character.”

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“You hit it right on the head again,” Flebberman said, with a satisfied air. “Got a nice way with words.”

“Yes, well—”

“Now, reverse is a li’l tricky, too. Just push in on yer clutch, and then push down—”

“Down?”

“Yup, down—and then move it over to the right—no, don’t look at that diagram, it’ll just confuse ya.”

Francie managed to find reverse and hit the gas. The wheels spun madly for several moments. Flebberman kept his hands folded in his lap as parts of his driveway were flung into the air.

“All righty,” he said calmly, “less clutch.”

Francie let out the pedal too suddenly, and the truck shot back ward up the hill again. She stopped.

“This is hard,” Francie said.

“Ah, you’ll get ’er,” he said. “Takes a li’l practice, is all.” “Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

They sat for a moment, the truck vibrating underneath them. “I meant to tell you I found some things in the attic that belong

to you,” Francie said. “Some old comic books. Your name was in them.”

Flebberman snorted. “Comic books?” he said.

“Some are quite old. And there are several older books. They might be worth something.”

“Naw. Not them old things. B’sides, I forgot all about ’em.

They been up there for years an’ years.”

“Well, maybe when I get my computer hooked up I can go on line and get some quotes for you.” Noting his expression of silent confusion, she added, “On the Internet.”

Flebberman nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, that’s somethin’ I don’t know nothin’ about. The Internet. Never done it.” He fid dled with the door handle, not opening it, just playing idly. Fran

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cie could tell he liked being this close to her. He smelled of gaso line himself, or possibly engine oil. He was too shy to meet her gaze. Sneaking a glance at his hands, she saw that there were black half-moons on each fingernail, and the backs of them were tattooed deeply with embedded filth, worn into the creases of his skin.

“You really think they might be worth somethin’?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Who knows? It can’t hurt to look. They’re in good condition.”

“Well,” Flebberman said. “Wouldn’t that be a hoot an’ a half.

Sure could use the money, if they are.”

“Well, in that case I’ll be sure to check,” Francie said. She knew without looking that Jennifer Flebberman would be standing at the window, watching them. She ventured, “I used to like science fiction, too, when I was little.”

“Huh. Most girls don’t.” “I know.”

“Spacemen an’ all that? Really?” “Really.”

“Hah,” said Flebberman in wonder.

“Well, I’ll let you know if I find anything out,” said Francie. “And thank you very much. Pleasure doing business with you.”

Flebberman took this as his cue to disembark. Sliding out the door, he said, “I’ll see if I can’t dig up the title to this old thing somewheres. Yer gonna need that to get ’er registered. I’ll stop by with it, maybe tomorra.”

“All right. Thanks again.”

Flebberman nodded and shut the door.

❚ ❚ ❚

Francie headed back down the hill to Adencourt, feeling the ragged hum of the truck’s engine through the springs of the seat. She pulled into the driveway, remembering just in the nick of time

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to depress the clutch before she hit the brake. The truck slid smoothly to a halt and she turned it off, feeling accomplished.

“I’ll figure you out, truck,” she said. “Yee ha.”

She went upstairs to the bedroom and got out of her clothes, intending to change into something that didn’t smell of gas. Then, changing her mind, she went to the window and pressed her nipples against the chill glass, savoring the shiver it sent down through her middle. She looked out over the frozen landscape once more, remembering suddenly that glass was transparent— she could be seen, for heaven’s sake! And here came a car! She dove quickly for the bed and slipped in under the sheets. Excited, she waited for the car to pass. Then she ran her hands over her breasts, down over her abdomen and the mound of her pubic bone. She wasn’t sure why, but she was suddenly and undeniably aroused. It couldn’t be Flebberman. What was it, then?

Well, maybe it was Flebberman a little. He wasn’t in the least attractive, but he was certainly capable. And he had those hands. Filthy, but strong. She imagined them—just for fun, not meaning it—being on her instead of her own as she slipped a fingertip in her mouth and then ran it over her clitoris, back and forth. His dirty mechanic’s hands on her pink flesh. The wrongness of it was exciting; Flebberman touching her, Flebberman tonguing her, Flebberman bringing her to climax. How odd. How very unlikely. Yet she arched her back, shuddering, and listened to her own low moan, surprised at the intensity of her orgasm.

She hadn’t come that strongly in a long time, she thought, catching her breath. Years. Since going on the medication, in fact.

Well, then, she thought as she caught her breath, exhilarated. I guess it’s a good thing I stopped taking it.

❚ ❚ ❚

Later that afternoon, as the dead late-autumn sun was going down, Francie went downstairs and read a few more entries in

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Marly Musgrove’s awkward hand. Milking cows, planting vegeta bles, visits from neighbors, the names of more children. The dry record of years slipped under her fingers, the pages feeling like the skin of some kind of delicate, extinct animal. No mention of Flavia-Hermanns, of whom Flebberman was one. A strange name, both Roman and Teutonic. Perhaps even a royal name, once upon a time. A name that could be a “hairloom” unto itself.

When it got dark, she turned off the lights and wandered from room to room with a candle, unafraid, accompanied only by the dim light and the cracking of the house’s inner timbers. She was the only passenger on a masterless ship. She called aloud to angels and demons alike, just to see who would flutter forth from the darkness, but was disappointed to find that all remained silent. Nothing came out to greet her, not even so much as a mouse or a moth.

Francie stood in front of one of the second-floor windows, hold ing the candle, staring at her own reflection. She was wearing her favorite diaphanous, old-fashioned nightgown, and she had un pinned her hair to let it fall to its natural length, past her shoul ders. With extreme pleasure, she noted that she looked like some kind of nineteenth-century version of herself. Anyone passing on the road now and happening to look up would receive the fright of their lives. But the road remained silent, as it had for most of the last two centuries.

So Marly Musgrove had been widowed, or otherwise aban doned. Something had happened to the man she called the Cap tain. He had left, and died. She’d gleaned that from the diary. Marly, too, had lain awake in her bedroom, looking up at the ceil ing, alone. Perhaps she, too, had wandered the house in the dark ness, peering into the bedrooms of her children to make sure that their sleep was sound and untroubled.

The idea of partaking in this ritual herself tickled her. She picked up the candle again, its wick diminished now but its flame still determined, and walked along the hall of bedrooms on the

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second floor. Which child had slept in which room? She tapped on the first door, as Marly herself must have done—pretending, her bowels clenching with excitement and fear.

“Hamish?” she called gently. “Everything all right?”

Yes, Mother
, she heard the reply, faint but surely real—wasn’t it? She moved down to the next room, tapping again. “Lucia?

Honey? Are you having nightmares again?” she called.

No, Mother. I’m asleep.

“That’s a good girl.” She went to the next room, tapping again. “Ellen? My darling? Do you want anything?”

No, Mother. I love you.

“I love you, too,” she called through the door.

And good night, my sleeping ones, she thought; directing this—as Marly also must have done—to the children in the ceme tery.

She headed back up the stairs to her own bedroom, blew out the candle, and got into bed, the only light now coming from the half-moon that reflected off the snow outside. She lay under the comforter, so new that it still smelled of chemicals, looking out through the glass at the small bit of sky she could see from that angle. She remembered having read somewhere that old windows looked distorted because the glass in them was still fluid. It seemed solid, but in reality it was still flowing slowly, at glacial speed. This idea pleased her poet self greatly. She imagined that she could slow herself down too, so that she was aging at the same rate at which the windows flowed, entering some new di mension of time wherein the world outside seemed to pass by so rapidly that from her point of view it was as ephemeral as a shoot ing star. It occurred to her that this was what things must look like to the dead Musgroves in the cemetery, too. They would be sitting there, relaxed, like in Thornton Wilder’s
Our Town
, watch ing the years pass by as though they were moments. Would they still be there in an aeon? In two? Or would they fade, as all the things they knew gradually returned to oblivion?