Just in the Neighborhood

I gather her up and shower her hair with safe kisses everywhere. Her hands stop merely stroking mine, and start subtly guiding them. Together, ours drift to softer places -- not dangerous, risky, back-in-the-old-days places, but places I've haven't fully explored in quite some time.

I let her stay in control. I take everything I can get. One new data point doesn't make a trend, but I make sure my beautiful wife knows that everything she gives me, I'll give her back a hundredfold if I can -- and if that's what she wants. My erection pokes into her back, and even though she doesn't take care of it, she doesn't seem to mind it, either. If she still feels guilty, I can't tell, and that's its own kind of relief to me.

I don't know how to avoid the cliché of contradiction. I go to sleep horribly frustrated, and yet, I sleep better than I have in a long time.

*******

The next day, I stay at work for the full day. When I get home, Erika bounds out of her room, down the hall, and towards the door. I brace for the pounce, get it, and we give each other our big hug. Once she's in close, the smells of dinner get tweaked a bit by a hint of that weird perfume from yesterday. It doesn't really surprise me. I know yesterday was a fluke. Today, I imagine Erika and Sophie have been holed up in her room for at least an hour, if not longer.

Sophie emerges more slowly and casually. "Hey, Mr. P!" she says. "Great to see you again."

Erika releases me, and Sophie extends her hand. We shake, and I note that she's wearing virtually the same outfit from yesterday, but just different enough so that I know it's not literally exactly the same shirt and jeans. She looks clean. I definitely smell a little bit more of that perfume, but marinated steak tips and garlic mashed potatoes are still the dominant aroma.

"Benji!" Carla calls out. "Dinner's ready! Wash up and sit down!"

Sophie gives me a look. I give her the shrug. Yeah, 'Benji.' I go do what my wife tells me to do, because she knows best. I return to the tricycle of girls, who are already sitting down. Their plates are full; so is mine, at what I'll vainly call the head of the oblong table. Sophie's at the other end again. Two times isn't tradition, but it feels like it already.

Dinner is delicious. I give my compliments to the chef.

"And guess who helped?" Carla asks coyly. She nods to both girls.

"Well that's great to hear," I say. I'm surprised I was wrong about how Sophie and Erika spent their time before I got home.

"So, how was work?" Sophie asks.

"Extremely boring," I reply. "Taking off early yesterday was a huge mistake. I got a taste for it."

Sophie chuckles. "Yeah, I know how that is."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, well, you know... those few years there. Cutting classes and stuff. Even when other stuff was going on that wasn't so great, it was a relief, and a thrill, and I got used to it in a hurry."

"All the more reason I'm so proud you got back in the saddle," Erika says. She takes another bite of mashed potatoes, finishing them off; she only took a small dollop, and three steak tips. The bulk of her plate is broccoli. She's very responsible, but she still likes the other stuff better than the vegetables. I notice Sophie's plate is much the same, though with a bit more of the potatoes. I wonder if Erika's good habits are rubbing off on her. I find myself hoping they are, even though it's such a small, stupid thing to have noticed at all.

That was a weird thing for Erika to say, though, right? She and Sophie have only been friends for a few weeks. How is she proud about something Sophie did two years ago? Nobody else at the table seems fazed. Erika doesn't blush or stutter like she did yesterday. It doesn't feel like anybody's hiding anything from me.

Sophie just gives my daughter a grateful smile, and then changes the subject, looking to Carla. "So, any big plans for when my stepmom comes over this weekend?"

"Hints are welcome," Carla says, "about food, if nothing else -- but we certainly don't want to be boring."

"It feels rude to request a menu," Sophie says, "but, well... she genuinely loves Italian. Chinese, too, but, like, the crappy American stuff. Probably nothing anyone could make at home."

"You know, it's been ages since I did a red sauce," Carla says. "I could make a day of it. Erika, honey, you'd help out, right? We could do it Friday, after you get home. It is one of our family days."

"Absolutely, Mom!" she says. "I'll chop stuff like a mo -- like a champ!" She glances over at me. This time, we both know exactly what she almost said. I give her the Dad nod: good save. Carla plays her Mom part and pretends she has no idea what happened.

"As for activities," Sophie says, "well, she works a lot, and she goes to the gym. She, uh... well, she doesn't have a lot of free time beyond that. I mean, she has friends, I guess, but it's all high-powered business ladies. I think she'd be really happy to just unwind with a few people her own age who aren't looking to swap business cards."

"Well, we might only be able to make her regular-happy, then," I joke.

"Ben!" Carla exclaims.

"What? It's rude to say she's younger than us?"

The look I get says it all.

Sophie tries her best to break the tension with a chuckle. "Guys, it's okay. She's super young and it's super weird. She's got a job, now, though, and all that, so she's officially an adult. Hell, she's got a kid -- legally. You guys can talk about what a handful the two of us are."

Carla doesn't look convinced that I deserve to be forgiven, but slowly, her eyes soften. I start paying a lot of attention to my plate, and I make all the usual manly grunts and grumbles communicating how good the food is.

Erika and I in the kitchen after dinner is another duplicate data point, and Carla keeps Sophie company until we're done -- or is that the other way around? After that, though, the predictable does finally happen. The kids retreat to Erika's room, leaving Carla and I to our very boring lives. Carla snuggles with me, though, so I don't care how boring they are, or how crappy the TV show she picked out is.

The first few times, we only think we hear noises. We shrug, and keep watching TV and cuddling. I most definitely do not want to get up. The next few times, though, it's impossible to deny: two little monkeys are jumping on the bed, or some such nonsense. I get a flash of memory that warms my heart a little bit, but then I shake it off. Erika's eighteen goddamn years old. I'm not buying her a new bed, or chair, or whatever else is in danger for whatever dumb reason.

I move to get up, but Carla stops me. "I'll go" she says. "We'll save Daddy for strike two."

That makes sense, so I only do the obligatory, "Are you sure, hon?"

Carla gets up and heads to Erika's bedroom. I settle in and realize just how shitty the TV show is. I'm very grumpy, all of a sudden. A tiny part of me almost hopes there's a strike two, because those little monkeys need to be punished for interrupting my cuddles with my wife.

After five minutes or so, my Dad senses tingle. I stand up. I don't move right away. I debate one last time whether I should head down the hallway. Just then, I hear the door open, and then Carla's voice.

"Okay, you two; the door stays open until I get back."

My Dad senses go into overdrive, and I don't know why.

Carla creeps down the hall like she's walking on eggshells. She sees me, startles, and then waves for me to head back towards the couch. We trade a bunch of looks, but ultimately, I know I'm going to follow her lead. I plop back down, making my grumpiness known to all who care, which may be no one. Carla slides down a few moments later, and nudges me to face her head-on.

She reaches out and rubs my leg. "Okay, Benji," she says. "So, you're going to stay calm, because I'm going to handle this."

"Handle what?" I demand. "What'd they do? What'd they break?"

Carla purses her lips -- almost like she thinks something is funny. I don't like that; it makes me feel like she's keeping me in the dark.

"So," she says, rubbing my leg, "Erika and Sophie are... more than just friends."

"What?" I ask. "What does that have to -- no. No."

The hand on my leg keeps rubbing, but it also starts pressing down -- like that's going to stop me.

"Ben," Carla says, "I am going to handle this. I am going back in there, and I am going to have a very, very long talk with both of them. I am also going to call Sophie's stepmom, and then she is going to come pick Sophie up. You are going to do whatever you need to do to remain calm. You're a great dad, but there are at least three reasons why you cannot be a part of this right now. Right now, this needs to be a girls-only thing."

"No," I reply, "I think that's exactly what it doesn't need to be, Carla."

She bites her lip. She seriously looks like she's trying not to laugh.

"Carla," I say in a warning tone -- one I never thought I'd ever have to use, or even have the courage to use, on my wife. "What is so funny? What is going on?"

She looks up at me. Her hazel eyes are bright. I am so fucking confused.

"If I tell you what's funny," she asks, "will you promise to let me handle this and try to keep calm?"

"No," I reply sternly.

Carla squints, then sighs. "Oh, dear," she says. "Ben, I walked in on them, and they were using... a toy. And it was very... funny looking. Are you happy now? Do you need more details?"

"No," I reply quickly. "God no. Jesus, Carla! I don't want to think about that -- but I have to think about that! She's my daughter! She's doing... that... in her bedroom, with her parents not fifty feet away in another room! That's insane! That's not Erika."

I can feel the head of steam building. I grab Carla's hand and squeeze it. I urge her to take this seriously. "Finally, she can't hide it anymore. Something changed, and I knew it had changed, and I just couldn't call her out on it, but I was right."

A thought occurs. I wish it hadn't.

"Oh my god, Carla. All that time she was over at Sophie's house! Jesus! You know what? You want to talk to Erika and Sophie right now? Fine. Go ahead. I'm calling Stephanie and you can't stop me."

"Dear," she says, "she's probably still at work."

"Like I fucking care!" I exclaim. "Sophie is legally her daughter. When your daughter gets in trouble, too fucking bad if you're at work."

Carla sighs, and withdraws her hand from between mine and my leg. "Okay, Benji," she says. "Okay. Just... don't say anything either of us will regret."

I shoot her a dirty look: I'll say whatever I goddamn well please. I stand up and go get my phone from the counter. Carla's already off the sofa and heading back towards Erika's room. I hear the door close. Only the fact that I'm about to rip Stephanie's head off stops me from chasing after her -- well, okay, that, and, I really do not want to see any "toys." I also don't want to admit that Carla was right, though.

I make the call. We're all friends, now, so our numbers are all saved. I hope that means Stephanie will take mine instead of letting it go to voicemail. She did seem rather excited to talk to me last time.

"Hi! This is Stephanie Brown, licensed independent realtor. Your call is-"

"Fuck."

Texts. Right. Of course. Shit. When's the last time I sent a text? Okay, no, this cannot be complicated. Icons... fucking... stupid quote bubble, even though that's for fucking speech in comics, so why would it be for texting? Dumbshit fucking phones...

Okay. Texting. So now what? Contacts. Stephanie Brown. Oh, okay, there's a texting option right in the contact list. Fuck, why am I old?

Finally! Here we go.

[Me]: need to talk NOW. About Sophie. NOW.

I probably could've shortened that. Doing all-caps was a pain, which makes no sense either. Isn't that how kids "talk" half the time? Live and learn, I guess. Five seconds later, my phone is ringing. Victory. I answer it.

"Ben, what happened?" she asks. She's halfway hysterical. She sounds like an actual parent.

Shit. That isn't fair. That's making it hard to stay mad. Okay. I need to be a good neighbor. "Stephanie, she's alive and she's not hurt. She's just in big trouble."

"Oh. Oh god. Oh my god. Okay. She's okay. But... okay, what did she do? Ben, I'm so sorry-"

"My wife caught her and our daughter, in her room... caught them, in the bedroom, Stephanie."

"... Oh, no. Oh, Ben! Oh, dear. Okay. I'm coming over."

"Good. The front door will be unlocked. Just ring the bell or knock, then come right in."

"On my way. I'm sorry-"

"We'll have plenty of time to talk when you get here, Steph. Drive safely."

"Oh! Wow, thank you, Ben! That's so sweet! Okay, bye!"

... What the fuck was that? Did she just thank me for telling her to drive safely? She sounded perfectly sincere, too. What is the matter with her? What is the matter with everybody?

With nothing else to do, I pace. Of course I eavesdrop. Every once in a while, I hear Carla's voice, but never Erika's or Sophie's. It sounds like she's being pretty stern with them, actually... but if she's saying, "No, no, no, now you pay attention and listen to me!" then doesn't that mean somebody's trying to backtalk her, or weasel their way out of something? Wouldn't I be hearing that, too?

I want to go in, but I don't. Carla put that damn image in my mind -- weird toys, and my daughter, and Sophie -- god dammit! Maybe she was right. Maybe for the sake of not getting a visit from the police or child services next week, I just need to sit down and try to relax.

With a beer. Yes. Okay. That is a plan. I hit the garage and get a beer from the second fridge. Then I briefly remember to be a good neighbor. I grab a few more, and transfer them to the main fridge in the kitchen.

I flip off the TV. Shitty shows are just going to make me mad. I nurse my beer, and it's mostly gone when I hear the light knock and the creak of the front door. I get up and meet Stephanie.

She's hunched over and walking on eggshells, just like Carla was before. I know the posture. It's very odd to see a woman in pumps, wearing a smart pant suit, with her blonde hair up in a tidy bun, looking like a dog that's trying not to get hit. Obviously, I'm the big, strong man that might do the hitting. I remember Frank. That makes me feel shitty.

"Ben, hi," she says.

"Stephanie," I say flatly. "Can I get you a beer?" I remember Frank again. Fuck. I'm a shitbag.

She shoots me a guilty look. "Got anything stronger?"

That breaks the tension. I chuckle -- though a little darkly -- and usher her towards the dining room table. "Oh, shit... uh, shoes. You know." Carla would understand, today of all days, but it's practically habit now for me to tell people.

"Oh! Yeah, of course." She reaches down and unclasps something on each professional-looking pump and then nimbly steps out of each one. She loses about two inches. Her toes slide the shoes towards the wall, and then she slinks towards the dining room -- or, well, the other side of kitchen island, anyway. I guess it still counts as a different room.

I make my way to the ad hoc liquor cabinet -- just a regular cabinet, below the island, on the kitchen side.

"What's your poison?" I ask.

"Scotch, whisky, bourbon," she says. "Thanks so much. I know you're pissed at me."

"Rocks?" I ask, choosing not to engage... yet.

"Yes, please."

I go grab some ice from the freezer, come back, and pour two bourbons on the rocks. Then it's me and Stephanie, sitting at the dining room table, playing a shitty game of chicken, or chess, or both. I'm a little pissed she doesn't say anything.

"Did you know?" I ask.

She sighs, and that's the answer, but she's good enough to say the words. "Yeah," she says. "I suspected, then I talked to Sophie, and she was honest with me... about that."

"She told you we knew."

She shakes her head. "No, actually, she never did. She preempted that by guilt tripping me about 'sexual confusion' and 'nothing's really settled' and all that. Made it sound like she was some lesbian swami who was having sex with Erika as part of some educational program or whatever."

"That's pretty weak bullshit to be falling for, Steph."

"I know," she says. Her shoulders slump. She looks like a corporate executive who just blew a huge deal. She takes a small sip of her drink. I can tell it's cheaper stuff than she's used to, but she covers for it well enough. "Sophie was so happy, Ben. I love her like she's my own flesh and blood, and she was so angry, for so long. Even... well, even after she figured out some stuff for herself, about herself, she still had so much healing to do. And then she got her school stuff sorted out, and then the move..."

"I get all of that," I tell her. "All of that makes sense, except for the part where you don't loop us in. You said we were good parents, Steph. You should've trusted us."

"I know," she says. "You know what it was, end of the day, Ben? I wanted to be cool."

"Classic trap," I reply, then take a long sip. "Sorry, Steph, but this one's gonna sting for a bit. I have so much respect for what you did -- for yourself, and for Sophie -- but my little girl... I can't just wave it off. She's my little girl. She was at your house."

She nods and takes another sip. "Sophie's not my little girl," she says. "I never got that. I think that's why I fell in the trap. Being cool was always my way in. I was the cool stepmom with the cool new house where Sophie could have friends over and..." She winces. "Shit, yeah. Wow. I really fucked up."

I nod.

After a few more barely-sips, Stephanie's head perks up and her eyebrows furrow. "Where's Carla, by the way?"

"In with the girls," I say ominously. "I was informed that there was... contraband... that made it especially inadvisable that I burst on in and start yelling."

Steph purses her lips. I know the look. What the fuck?

"What is so funny?" I demand. "Honestly. First Carla, now you. Is the whole town on goof juice? What the fuck?"

Steph rolls her eyes guiltily. "Oh, Ben," she says. "I feel like you've got a really good sense of humor most of the time. It's just, right now, you know... I think Carla gets that you're in no mood. I do, too. I just can't help it when it pops in my head."

I down the rest of my drink and shrug. "Spill it," I say. "It couldn't make anything any worse."

"Well," she says. "It's just... you know... Carla's in there giving them a real tongue-lashing."

The laugh comes on gradually, but it gets big. Steph waits a bit, making sure I'm not faking it to lull her into a false sense of security -- you know, before I hurl my glass or flip the table. Then she laughs, too.

It turns out I really needed it. I do feel better. My perspective on Steph instantly changes, too. It's crazy how that happens. She was this abstract, pitiable, commendable, TV-movie creature just a few days ago, then she was in the doghouse, and now, just like that, she's kinda cool. I recognize the irony right away, but I can't deny it: suddenly, I see her as a cool person.

"Well," I say, "I didn't hear any spanking, so there's that."

Steph gives me a sympathetic look. We both know that one wasn't nearly as funny. She reaches out and places her hand on top of mine. I look down in surprise, then look back up.

"Are you gonna be okay out here?" she asks. "I think I have to go in there and make it two-on-two. One parent for each kid, maximum seriousness."

I sigh. "Yeah, I think so. No. Not really. Just... I don't even know. I don't even know what I would say if I went in. I feel like I'd huff and I'd puff and then I'd forget how to blow a house down. Probably burst a blood vessel."