The New Neighbor

Robby's foot kicked something and he stopped, looked down. Four newspapers were scattered at the edge of the lawn where they always landed when the paperboy threw them each day. They were wrapped in plastic because of the weather, but two of the wrappers had torn and the papers inside were soaked.

Four days of newspapers. It was always delivered early, before Robby went to school, so one of them was probably today's, Tuesday's. Dad usually brought it in and read it over breakfast.

He hadn't since Saturday.

He hasn't been feeling good, Robby thought as he stepped across the sidewalk and onto the street. He just hasn't thought about it, that's all.

Across the street, there were lights on behind the curtains of Lorelle's windows. She seemed to be a very early riser despite the late hours she kept.

She never sleeps.

The mailbox was full of mail. The aluminum door hung open a couple of inches and the corners of wet envelopes, sales papers and advertisement flyers stuck out of the box.

Robby stopped and stared at the box, pulled it all the way open and looked in at the sopping stack of mail, all of it ruined. He usually brought in the mail, and if he didn't, it usually occurred to someone eventually.

It had occurred to no one.

Frowning, Robby walked on. Jessie sat in the middle of the road, head hung low, her tail curled beneath her rump.

'Hey, Jess,' Robby called, but his voice was hoarse and flat.

The dog's head lowered even more and her tail twitched cautiously over the pavement. Her fur was wet and slicked to her body.

Robby walked over to the dog and patted her head. 'What're you doing out here, Jess, huh? How come you're not inside?'

Dylan usually let Jessie into the garage at night, especially if it was raining. But Dylan had been sick, too. Maybe he'd forgotten.

But why wouldn't his parents do it? Robby wondered.

Jessie hunkered down close to the pavement with a whine, looking up at Robby fearfully, as if he were about to strike her.

Robby bent down to pet her, murmuring, 'What's the matter, Jessie? Huh? What's – “

She pressed her chin to the ground and whined again, clenching her eyes shut.

Robby heard someone shouting behind him, a voice muffled by distance and walls. He stood slowly and turned back toward the Garry's house, the last house on the left, as glass shattered. Another voice joined in, both shouting at once. The front door opened, then slammed. Mrs. Garry stalked across the grass to the car parked in the drive, got in and slammed the door. After starting the engine, she revved it and popped the clutch. The car shot backward into the street and turned until the headlights faced Robby.

'C'mon, Jess,' Robby said, slapping his thigh as he backed toward the sidewalk.

Mrs. Garry shifted gears and the car kicked forward.

'Jessie, come on.'

The dog remained in the middle of the street, hunched down like a frightened child.

Robby whistled, made kissing sounds with his lips, and kept slapping his leg as he called, 'C'mere, Jess, c'mon, Jessie-girl, come here.”

The car's speed increased and Mrs. Garry's eyes stared straight ahead as if they saw nothing in her path.

Robby dropped his books, bolted forward and clutched Jessie's fur, dragging her over the pavement. The dog wailed horribly, pulling her head away from him, as if dodging a blow. Her black claws scraped over the road as Robby heaved her toward the sidewalk, his weakened arms trembling with the effort, his head pounding. The dog suddenly gave a sharp bark and clambered to her feet, jumping onto the sidewalk as Mrs. Garry roared by in her car, eyes front, mouth moving rapidly, angrily, flashing teeth as she shouted silently at no one.

Robby watched her run the stop sign at the intersection and take a squealing left turn. He bent to give Jessie a reassuring pat, but the dog scrambled away with a yelp, trotting down the street. Robby stood on the sidewalk, numbed by what had just happened.

Winona Garry was one of the most easy-going even-tempered persons he'd ever known. Robby couldn't believe she'd nearly run over him and her own dog.

He stared at the Garry house for a moment. It looked dead. Empty. Apparently Dylan was still sick. He was usually out by now, heading for the bus stop with Robby.

Still sick, Robby thought. Like everybody else.

Moving slowly, trembling from his exertion, Robby picked up his books from the wet pavement, tried to dry them off with his jacket sleeve, then started toward the bus stop again, so disturbed that he was mumbling to himself, trying to sort out what had just happened. He noticed that the Crane's mailbox, like his own, was stuffed with days of mail. Robby stopped to peek into the box at the soggy stack.

There were three plastic wrapped newspapers in the driveway. One of them was beneath the left rear tire of Al's Mazda.

Not a whole lot of interest in the mail or the paper these days, Robby thought.

The LaBianco's weren't interested in theirs, either. And coming from inside their small house, Robby could hear Mr. LaBianco's normally quiet voice raising to an angry roar.

Sheri MacNeil's porch light was still on and all her curtains were closed. She was usually at her kitchen window by now, waving at passing children as she made breakfast and watched Good Morning America on the small television on her kitchen table.

But when he stopped again and looked around, Robby realized there were no children passing her house. There were a few standing at the intersection, waiting for the bus, but not half as many as usual. And they were so quiet.

He walked on slowly, facing front, but looking out the corners of his eyes at the strange sights that only a longtime resident of the neighborhood would notice – more mailboxes stuffed with neglected mail, more ignored newspapers scattered on lawns and driveways, a small jagged hole in the front window of the Petrie house, no loud rock music coming from Donald Gundy's bedroom window as he got ready for school.

Robby walked to the intersection and stood behind the Crane twins and two other children. The twins were talking softly between themselves; the other two were silent.

'I thought you were sick,' Robby said.

'We are,' Dana said, facing the street and sounding cranky.

'Sorta.' Tara's voice was gentler, almost a whisper. 'But we're better.'

'Shouldn't you stay home until you're well?'

Tara said, 'Mom wants us out of the house for the day. She's… in a bad mood.'

'So's Dad,' Dana snapped.

Robby hesitated, not wanting to sound nosy, then asked, 'How come?'

'I think they're sick, too,' Tara said. 'But mostly, I think they're fighting.'

He wanted to ask why, but the bus rumbled off of Victor Avenue and slowed to a stop at the curb and the children climbed aboard.

Robby stood alone on the corner hugging his books -

– The flu? Is that what you've got? -

– feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather -

– Yeah, that's what we thought it was. But I know better now -

– and listening to the sound of his own bus in the distance -

– Because I don't think the flu would make my wife take a chainsaw to her son. Or to me -

– as it neared the corner. It would stop, the doors would hiss open, and the driver would wait for Robby to get on, then it would take him to school, where he would be expected to forget the deeply disturbing feeling of wrongness that he felt now, and concentrate, for six hours, on teachers and books. He spun around and hopped over the small shrubs that ran along the front of the Holcombs' yard, then ducked behind the fence that faced Mistletoe until the bus came. It slowed at the abandoned corner, then picked up speed and