San Diego Noir

didn’t even raise her eyes from the screen to talk to me.

“There’s something going on over there,” I said.

“Are you back on the dogs again?” she asked.

“Well, I was never off the dogs. They haven’t stopped barking yet, have they? But no, that’s not what I meant, Sheila.”

“I wish you’d lighten up.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“There are other things that you could better focus your attention on.” She pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders. “Things even closer to home than our neighbors.”

I wasn’t following her line of reasoning so I walked over to her to ask her to explain. But before I could do that I thought of something else. “You know the guest star did it, right?” I said, and pointed to the TV. “The more famous the guest star, the likelier it is that person committed the crime.”

Sheila looked up at me for the first time. The TV light on her face made it appear as if she was angry. “Way to ruin it,” she said. “Thanks.”

About a week later, I saw Vida and New Girl emerge from the house to take a walk. New Girl had crutches now, though they seemed kind of old and beaten up. Not the nice new crutches you’d expect a recent amputee to have been given. But maybe that was it—maybe she couldn’t afford new crutches. I had no idea what Vida did for a living. Neither she nor New Girl ever seemed to work. Then again, many people around here don’t seem to work and still find ways of making money. I couldn’t see if New Girl’s leg was still bandaged because she was wearing long shorts that came down below the knee. The two of them were laughing and carrying on as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Vida was wearing another one of those hideous muumuus—daffodils, it looked like—and flip-flops. New Girl was splattered with paint of many hues and wore a pink tennis shoe on her remaining foot. Her hair wasn’t blond anymore—she’d dyed it an awful burnt umber color—but she was still very pretty. Prettier, maybe, than the first time I’d seen her. I wanted to go out there then and say hello, introduce myself to New Girl, and inquire after the dogs in a civilized manner, but by the time I thought of the proper words to use they’d disappeared around the corner and the moment was lost. I regretted that missed opportunity soon afterward because the next interaction I had with our neighbors was very unpleasant indeed.

We had come to the thick of July when the windows were open all the time and the air had turned quite warm and still. Sound carried even farther than usual. The nights were heavy and not always comfortable. Vida’s place was an assault to the senses—the smell of turpentine and some kind of smoke, the death metal, the inconvenience of her car which was now regularly parked in the driveway. But all of those things might have been forgivable if not for the dogs. The dogs were making me insane.

One morning, so bleary from lack of sleep that I forgot to put a filter in the coffeemaker thus causing an overflow of wet grounds and undrinkable coffee, I finally reached my limit and marched next door without even thinking about what I would say when I got there. It was a very short walk, but I was in a sweat by the time I got there. I knocked once and heard the dogs go mad. Each yip felt like a knife driven through my skull. I waited a few seconds and then knocked harder. Pounded, actually.

Finally, the door opened. I’d expected Vida wearing another one of her muumuus. I feel sure I would have handled the situation better if Vida had answered the door. But it was New Girl and, save for her crutches, she was completely naked. The shock of it was a bit much and for a moment I lost my manners and just stared at her. I made a few observations in that moment. For one, she was tattoo-free, which, I have to tell you, is quite a rarity these days. Second, she had new wooden crutches, topped with cute yellow terry cloth ducks where she rested them under her arms. And then, because I had to lower my gaze, I couldn’t help but see that her stump was smooth and looked like it had healed well.

“What?” she said by way of greeting.

I tried to remember if I’d heard her speak before and if I had, whether her voice had sounded this deep and harsh.

“I’m your neighbor—”

“I know who you are. What do you want?”

“Those dogs,” I said, pointing in the general area of her hip, behind which the canines in question were racing back and forth, yipping as they went, “are keeping me awake.”

For a moment New Girl looked nonplussed as if she had no idea what I was talking about. As if, in fact, she didn’t even know the dogs to which I was referring. But her expression changed again and she scowled. Really, the picture of rudeness. Just then a plane roared past overhead. American Airlines, I could tell by its silvery flash. I thought again about that rank blue ice and shuddered. New Girl followed its path with her eyes and then turned them back to me.

“How can you possibly hear anything with that going on all the time?” she said.

“That doesn’t happen all the time,” I told her. “The dogs never stop.”

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Her scowl had turned into a sneer.

“What, someone who likes to sleep? Yes, I am. But I can’t sleep because those dogs bark all night. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“You know,” she said, “you should mind your own business.” And then she slammed the door in my face. I’d never had that happen before and it startled me so badly that I stood there for a full minute before turning around and walking home.

“I think maybe I should call the Humane Society,” I told Sheila that night. She was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a glass of wine.

“Why?”

“I just don’t think it’s right for dogs to bark like that. Maybe they’re being mistreated.”

Sheila sighed and took a long drink from the glass. I hadn’t told her about seeing New Girl naked, though I’d implied that she’d been rude to me.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Sheila said.