The Neighbors Are Watching (15 page)

“What difference should it make to you, Dick?” Joe was shouting. “How the hell does it affect your life in any way?”

“When you let that girl run around with no supervision—and I don’t care how you were raised, Joe, but that’s not the way it works in my house!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Joe raised his hands, palms up, a bitter smile twisting his face. “You want to talk about a lack of supervision? Do you know what your own kid is into, Dick? If anything—”

“If you’re going to yell, could you do it somewhere else?” Allison interjected. “This is my house, after all.”

“—I should be the one who’s pissed off.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My God, you can’t be serious. You don’t know how heavily your own kid’s into drugs? Look at him!”

“What the hell are you talking about, Joe?”

“You should leave, Dick,” Allison said loudly but without anger.

“Do you know she was high when I took her to the hospital?” Joe gestured angrily toward Diana. “She reeked of pot smoke. I had to make her go change her clothes. And who was she with?
Your fucking kid!
”

“Hey, everybody shut up!” That was Kevin. He’d stepped forward from the dark edges of the living room and positioned himself at the foot of the staircase in a neat, almost military triangulation with everyone else in the room. “You all need to hear something.”

“Kevin—” Dick warned.

“No, listen to me,” Kevin said. Dorothy noticed for the first time how tall her son had become. Of course she’d known his height, but she hadn’t realized what it meant in relation to other people. He had both his father and Joe by several inches. But standing there, preparing to deliver his announcement, he seemed smaller and slighter than both men. His face was splotchy and dotted with acne. He looked like what he was—a boy. Dorothy wanted to say something that would soothe him, make him stop whatever he was going to say, but at that moment she had no body, no mouth, and no words.

“Diana …” Kevin began again. He looked over at her, still standing in the shadows, swaying back and forth with that squalling baby. “Me and Diana have been together for a while now,” he said. “She’s a beautiful person
and we love each other. We want to be together and we’re going to get married.”

“Oh Jesus, Kevin, don’t be ridiculous,” Allison said. Dorothy’s eyes widened. She didn’t know what surprised her more, the alcohol she could hear in Allison’s voice or her casual blasphemy.

“No, this is real.” There was something in his voice that worried Dorothy although she couldn’t identify it. It sounded like a buzz or a hum, some kind of weird vibration distorting his words ever so slightly. She thought about what Joe had said about drugs and felt panic clutch at her throat. “This baby needs a father and I am going to be one for her.”

“Kevin, shut up,” Dick said. Dorothy thought she’d never heard him sound quite so disgusted.

“The baby doesn’t need
you
for a father, Kevin—it needs two parents to give it a good home, which is where it should be right now. This was your brilliant idea, right? To keep the baby?” Allison choked on a laugh.

“Allison, please.…” Joe sounded very tired, but still angry. Dorothy almost felt sorry for him.

“No, Joe. This is the reason she backed off the adoption. This, right here.” She gestured toward Kevin.

“I don’t think so,” Kevin said, staring at Allison. “She never wanted to give her baby away—that was
your
idea. She told me about it so don’t try to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“You don’t know anything about anything,” Allison said.

“Don’t you talk to him that way,” Dick interjected. “As far as I can see, you have no right to judge anybody.”

“Listen to me,” Joe said, inching closer to Dick, “I’m going to tell you one more time—”

“Go home, Kevin,” Dick commanded. “Now.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “What are you gonna do, Dad? You can’t make me do anything. I’m almost eighteen.”

“This is a private family matter,” Dick said through clenched teeth, “and while you are living in my house, eating my food—”

“Have you even heard anything I’ve said?” Kevin said. Dorothy could hear the beginning of that childhood wail in his voice now. He looked over at Diana, who was standing still at the edge of the room. By some miracle the baby had stopped crying. But Diana had started. Dorothy could see the shine of silent tears on her face. “We’re going to be together,” Kevin said, “and there’s nothing any of you can do to stop us or take the baby away.”

“Kevin, I said NOW!”

“Mom?” Kevin looked over at Dorothy, an expression of naked pleading on his face. She hadn’t even thought he knew she was there. “You want to say something about this?”

Dorothy looked at all the eyes turned on her and wanted to shrink away into nothing. What did Kevin imagine that she could say or do to help him, or anyone? She was surprised by the flash of anger that hit her then. Kevin had received so much more nurturing than she had—so much more parenting. He’d been provided with everything, had wanted for nothing, and yet he couldn’t stop taking. This time he was asking too much.

“You need to listen to your father, Kevin. Go home.”

The room seemed to contract then, Dorothy remembered, and everything got much brighter—almost painfully so. The baby started up again, that knifelike newborn scream, and Allison shouted at Diana that she needed to feed it. Dick threatened that if Joe didn’t keep Diana away from his son he would make sure that the authorities were contacted. Joe became very quiet and threatened to do the same if Dick didn’t leave his house at that very moment. But it was Kevin who left, striding out the front door, without so much as slamming it closed for punctuation. Then Allison walked over and opened it wide. “Go,” she said. “This is over.”

Wishful thinking, thought Dorothy, because that night was only the beginning.

• • •

“Dorothy Werner?”

Dorothy jumped, clutching at her purse, a tiny grunt of fear escaping from her throat. She’d forgotten where she was. The nurse in lavender scrubs was back, still looking at her clipboard. Dorothy sprang from her seat.

“I’m here,” she said, making sure her name wasn’t called a second time.

S
unday dawned clear and warm. The forecast called for heat and anxiety. Before noon, exactly as predicted, the Santa Ana winds began blowing hard across San Diego, raising red-flag warnings all the way to the coast. Visibility was sharp and bright with twinkling dust; the air buzzed with electricity and crackling nerves. Then again, this time of year always made Southern Californians apprehensive. The Santa Anas, those arid devil winds, drew every bit of moisture from skin, lips, and hair and set allergies raging. People cursed, felt like crap, and made dark jokes about “earthquake weather.” Psychics did a booming business, reading cards for nervous patrons wanting a glimpse into a better future, and chiropractors adjusted more backs than they had all summer.

Prescriptions for antidepressants increased as soon as the wind starting whipping through the canyons, due, some theorized, to positively charged CO
₂
ions produced by the Santa Anas that literally altered brain chemistry and threw serotonin levels out of whack. The local news stations advised staying hydrated. Just make sure to get enough water, the sentiment went, and you’ll do fine. But despite all these precautions and incantations, the unease persisted. Because what everyone really meant when they talked about the wind and the weather was fire. Fire had its own season in this part of California; a season that was becoming longer and more treacherous every year. By the time the wicked wind cut across the Mojave and
rushed toward the Pacific, the entire county had become particularly flammable. The local newspaper used words like
scary
and
danger
to describe the outlook for the hot, parched week ahead.

Campers in Harris Ranch, just north of the Mexican border, paid heed and tended their illegal campfire carefully, making sure to extinguish the embers they left behind. But those hot bits of char were lovingly caressed back to life by the fire-loving Santa Ana wind. As San Diegans sat down for their Indian summer brunches in kitchens, on patios, and in outdoor cafés, the dead campfire became a major conflagration, burning north, burning west, incinerating everything in its path.

The wind continued on its dash from east to west, racing across the Anza-Borrego, picking up pollen and tiny particles of desert debris, which it showered on Julian, a quaint town known for its homemade pies and homegrown artists, and its western neighbor Ramona, a rustic enclave with an overworked fire department. Residents sniffed the air, shook their heads, and checked the conditions of their garden hoses. Between those two towns and slightly to the north was the community of Witch Creek, home to a small but growing vineyard and acres of chaparral dryer than bleached bones.

By noon, the temperature was well into the eighties and Witch Creek was a box of angry matchsticks. The wind tossed brush and trees and slapped at power lines. Excited currents sizzled, arcing in temperatures hotter than the surface of the sun.

The wind was the only witness to the inevitable first spark and hungry flame. Within minutes the new fire had gorged itself on tinder and exploded. The blaze expanded, stoked with ready fuel, scorching the air at sixty miles per hour. The billowing white smoke of burning brush fanned westward, signaling the fire’s advance. By early afternoon, it was a monster named the Witch Fire and it was headed into the heart of Ramona. Photo albums were gathered, pets marshaled, and cars loaded with items that couldn’t be replaced. By late afternoon, the smoke was a hundred-mile cloak over the landscape, swirling in doorways and blowing soot through open windows. And by dinnertime, ash was raining into the ocean.

A
llison was anxious. She held the remote control in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, alternating sips and flips. One channel to the next, all were covering the fires. On-the-scene reporters gestured to shelters and fire trucks, smoke blowing through their hair, the sound of wind in their microphones. In the studios, the anchors seemed to have made a pact to dress for disaster. The men had taken off their jackets and loosened their ties. The women wore yesterday’s makeup and pulled back their hair. “We’ll be here all day,” they said, “bringing you this story as it develops.”

There were fires every year. This time of fall there was always at least a hint of smoke in the air. And four years ago—“almost to the day,” as the newscasters kept repeating—there was the Cedar Fire, an inferno that had qualified several counties as major disaster areas. Allison remembered the pall of smoke. School was closed for an entire week owing to the un-breathable air. Allison had been edgy then, but calm. There were evacuations happening everywhere, some only a few miles to the south, and so Allison made sure that all the important documents were in a fireproof box and ready to go. She might have mobilized more, but Joe was completely unconcerned. Wildfires never made it all the way to the ocean, he told her. His biggest worry was that business at the restaurant was taking a dive because everyone was in a panic. So, although she couldn’t avoid
paying attention to it, the Cedar Fire hadn’t caused Allison that much anxiety.

But this was different.

The wind had started yesterday, whipping up dust and swirling leaves. Sometime in the afternoon, she noticed that the entire house smelled like an ashtray and that there was black soot accumulating in the doorsills. She closed the windows, but the smell remained and the air inside was thick and heavy. Still, that was nothing compared to what happened after sundown. The wind … Allison had never heard anything like it. Palm trees smacking the house, howling gusts finding every available corner to scream through. She couldn’t remember ever being so frightened by wind. She’d grown up with it, after all. The Santa Anas were a fact of life—an excuse to buy expensive moisturizer and an annual topic of conversation.

Can you believe how dry it is? It’s so hot too. Do you remember it being this hot? Sure is pretty out, though, isn’t it
?

But those winds had never felt like this before—wrathful and insane. Last night she’d paced around downstairs at first, trying to watch television. Then Diana appeared in the living room with the baby and proceeded to feed her on the couch. Allison tried not to look when Diana pulled down the straps of her dress and began struggling with her breasts and blankets, but it was impossible to ignore the baby’s frustrated cries. She turned her head and saw Diana, half naked and wild-haired, moving the baby from one side of her body to the other. The baby’s arms flailed, tiny fists shaking.

“I can’t do this,” Diana said. There were tears shining on her face. Allison held back the words that sprang to her mouth. What did this girl expect? She could have been back in school by now, all of this behind her. It was impossible to feel sorry for her. It didn’t matter that she was so young—she’d had no trouble making her own decisions and ignoring the advice of everyone around her. Now she had to live with the consequences.

“She doesn’t want to nurse,” Diana said, a note of pleading in her voice. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want the breast,” Allison said. “Or maybe you’re not making enough milk. I’ve heard that happens sometimes when—”

“When
what
?” Diana snapped. “Why don’t you just say it?”

Allison waited a beat and then two. The baby cried louder, the shrieks piercing Allison’s brain. “Just give her a bottle,” Allison said. “She needs to be fed.”

Diana looked at Allison with a mixture of anger and helplessness. She shifted the baby, wiped her eyes with her free hand, and pulled her dress back up. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She got up off the couch, dragging and dropping a pink receiving blanket on the floor, and walked over to Allison. “Can you please …” she began and thrust the baby toward Allison, “Can you
please
hold her for a minute? I’m going to get her a bottle.”