Next Door Neighbors

"Do I?" He curled his lips in fascination. "Maybe, that's my pretend, I don't know. But, no, I'm not hiding anything from you, regarding Robert..." he said, meaningfully.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That I obviously know more than I've told you, just, nothing related to your husband, for whom you came here to ask."

"Then, for whom do you know things?"

"Oh, plenty of people; all these guys here, what they do for a living, how things are at their homes, shit like that. Then, I can talk for hours about authors; can educate you on Joyce, Faulkner, Fante, Miller..."

"No, thanks," she interrupted him with a gentle smile. "It won't be necessary."

"Suits me," he shrugged his shoulders, fainting disappointment.

"When you say the guys here," she then asked, after a few moments of silence, "do you also mean..."

"Maybe," he gave her a bright smile.

"You like fucking with people, don't you?"

"Well, the drink does not help with actual fucking, so... I have to get my kicks somehow," he gulped down his glass; a refill came in manners of seconds.

"So, what about Stan?" She asked, lowering her voice to a barely audible whisper.

"Well," he cleared his throat and looked about dramatically.

* * * *

Lana sat alone in the living room; the TV was turned on, but, she did not watch anything, as George's revelations repeatedly played in her head. Could there be any trace of truth in what he had said? She kept asking herself, despairingly trying to decipher the words, their meanings; countless attempts to convince herself she had heard wrong, that she had misinterpreted something.

She had not; she was certain of it. Nonetheless, she was unwilling to believe what he had told her. Perhaps, it was out of bitterness, jealousy; or, even, just an attempt to fuck with her. He did admit he was getting joy out of doing it, why shouldn't she believe it was exactly what he had tried to pull off with her, too?

Yet, as she continued to repeat the words to herself, she could not help but connect the dots, regardless of how desperately she attempted to find a point that did not fit. She wanted the picture to crumble, to fail, but, it seemed dauntingly impossible.

Everything made perfect fucking sense; Lana leaned back on the couch, let the tears flow down her eyes. What did knowing this mean to her? She had no way of telling in this state of conflict and desperation.

All she knew was that she'd have to do something; before it was too fucking late. A crossroad had emerged in front of her, two paths promising two very different journeys and opposite destinations; and she'd have to choose sooner rather than later, otherwise she'd risk remain stranded in the middle of nowhere.

* * * *

"Robert," she said solemnly, while they both sat at the kitchen table idly staring at the chicken-a-la-crème standing untouched on their plates, "I talked to George the other day."

"What?!" He exclaimed, exasperated. "Why? Why the fuck would you do that for? Why can't I have one thing, one friend, to myself? Why do you always have to meddle? Why can't you just let me have something to myself?"

"Robert, what are you talking about?" She said, worrisomely.

"You went over there and told him to leave me alone, didn't you? Come on, admit it! I know you did! He hasn't called in two days, hasn't returned my calls; he's not even at the bars!

"I looked for him everywhere; he's nowhere to be found! What did you tell him, huh? You threatened him? Paid him to stay away? It won't work, Lana! It won't!" He was shouting in a shriek voice, slamming his fist often on the table, rattling the glassware.

"Robert!" She protested loudly; he suddenly stopped and looked at her in amazement. "I did no such thing," she said, much calmer, yet still panting heavily. "I only wanted to talk to him, in order to understand you better; I imagined, given he's your friend, he'd be in stand to help me understand what's really been bothering you all this time.

"And I did; that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Bullshit," he whispered angrily. "If that's the truth, then, where is he? Why doesn't he answer his phone? Why hasn't he called me back?"

"Maybe, he left town for a while? Unexpected trip? Something came up with a publisher, or anything?"

"I would have known!" He protested. "He'd have told me! It's... granted, sometimes he's too drunk, or high, to look at his phone, but... but, two days not hitting the bars? That's not him! That's wrong!

"What did you tell him?"

"What do you mean, too high?" She said, raising her eyebrows, her heart's pounding in her chest intensifying in an instant.

"Fuck that!" He dismissed her with a harsh gesture. "Tell me what you did to him! What did you tell him?"

"I told you already!" She protested vividly. "I asked him about you! I asked him for some advice, some inside knowledge, about you! Because, quite frankly, I can't even recognize you sometimes, Robert! I was desperate!"

"Desperate?" He laughed, harshly. "Is that why you went on vacation with your friends? Out of desperation?"

"I did that," she said, certain her heart would soon break her ribs and be launched directly onto Robert, "because, I had to get away from all this madness! To avoid, even for a couple of days, having to see you drunk out of your mind every single moment of every single day!

"I can't take it, Robert! You're not the man I married; you've changed. You're not you, can't you see that? You never drank, you never... draining bottles every night, going to work hangover?

"Hitting dive-bars, instead of going to work? Where's the Robert I love? The hard-working, honest Robert, who'd do anything for those around him, who'd try to be a great example to his daughter?"

"Don't bring Jenna into this!" He yelled; his fist landed on the table so hard, Lana's plate flipped over, the chicken and the mushroom sauce landing all over her clothes.

Lana jumped up, laughing in despair. She threw the chicken and the mushroom in the sink, then began furiously rubbing her shirt and pants with a wet towel.

"Don't rub it," he said calmly, without moving a muscle. "Just... stamp on it. If you rub, it'll leave an even worse stain."

"Oh, great, thanks!" She said cynically.

"Only trying to help," he waved his hand dismissively. "Anyway, I'm sorry, okay? I'm just... frustrated."

"Yeah, no fucking shit," she fired back at him, fiercely.

Then, she stormed off the kitchen, taking her clothes off as she rushed to the bathroom. She soaked both shirt and pants in a bucket filled with warm water, then returned to the kitchen, wearing a loose sundress, which she absentmindedly picked from the wardrobe.

"You want mine?" He asked her, when she had sat back down on the chair, and pushed his plate towards her.

"No, better you eat it," she fired back at him. "If you're going to get plastered again tonight, you might just as well have a full stomach."

"What do you want from me? I said I'm sorry, I... really didn't mean to do that. It's just... I'm worried. My friend's gone missing. My only fucking friend is missing."

"He's not missing," she said, annoyed. "He's just... probably on a bender somewhere; maybe, he ended up in another town while on a binge and now has no way to come back, or means to call for help.

"He'll make it, don't worry."

"You don't like him, huh?" He chuckled, dryly.

"What gave me away?"

"You'd be glad, if he's dead somewhere, or never calls back. Because, you think, that'd mean good ol'Robert would make his triumphant return, along with everything that implies. Admit it, isn't it so?"

"Yes, I do want the Robert I've known back! Is that so bad? To want my husband back? To want to save you from this... downfall?"

"Downfall?" He asked, bedazzled. "Holy shit, Lana, you really don't get it, right? I mean... if you did talk to George about me, if you did... never mind. You're simply too thick-headed to understand, aren't you?

"Too narrow-minded to accept, I may be fucking happy for the first time in my fucking life, despite the problems haranguing me."

"Happy?" She squealed. "You call this happy? Look at you; you're fucking miserable. I bet your head aches like hell, your stomach is in a turmoil; you're sick, you can barely stand, you..."

"Yes, I know how a hangover feels like, thank you very much..." he said, rubbing his forehead. "But, it's nothing three cold beers can't fix. On the other hand..." he stopped; he opened the fridge and grabbed two bottles of cold Bud, without getting up. He uncapped them both on the table, ignoring Lana's pleas. He did scratch the table a bit, but, he didn't give a damn. He drained the first bottle thirstily; then, had a good, long hit from the second. "See?" He then said. "I already feel much better."

"That's not better!" She exclaimed. "That's just... you're sick! You need..."

"Rehab?" He mocked her. "AA meetings? Fuck all that. That's for people, who are too weak, or too ignorant, to appreciate the true beauty of alcohol. Getting sober is only for fucking quitters."

"That's something your friend taught you?"

"Exactly," he pointed his index finger at her, and winked.

"And whatever that guy's saying, is... what? Evangelical?"

"Ha, no..." he shook his head, frowning. "He's just...He's right! I don't want to quit; why would I? When I drink, this fucking life still makes some damn sense! If I quit... what happens then? Do I go back mindlessly trying to help my clients? The clients that don't pay up, that are losing everything they own?

"The clients that are showing me how low one can fall? Who are showing me the fate that awaits me—us? No, thank you very much, I won't have it. I'll stick to the drink; at least, I get to have a few moments of joy, of excitement. Moments where I'm not being eaten up by horrendous thoughts about the bleak future awaiting me in the next fucking corner!"

"Robert, why did you never tell me about all this? I'm your fucking wife, God damn it!" She erupted, unable anymore to control the emotions running wild within her.

"When was the last time we talked?" He fired back, equally frustrated and despaired. "When was the last fucking time we sat down at this very table to talk? Do you even remember?

"'Cause I sure as fuck don't!"

"You told me that before," she told him sternly, "and I still don't get it. We've always talked, Robert. It's you, who turned cold and distant all of a sudden; abruptly deciding that I'm not talking to you. It's not my fault, if you misjudge things, or interpret them in a way that suits you!"

"Great!" He cried. "So, now, I'm the one at fault! Bloody fucking lovely!"

"You're the one that assumed we don't talk!" She said. "I was always here, willing to hear you out, if there was something wrong. Eager to help you out with your problems. You just made an assumption, based on I don't know what, and convinced yourself it's true!

"How is that my fault?"

"So, you didn't grow distant, when Jenna moved away? You did not turn cold, when Jenna left, and it was just the two of us here? Is that what you're trying to say?"

"Yes! Of course I was sad, when Jenna moved out of the apartment; weren't you? But, how could you understand my situation? You always had your work, you always had somewhere to go in the mornings. I'm the one that stayed home all these years taking care of Jenna, raising her... I'm the one that quit her studies, to raise our child.

"So, how can you possibly understand how empty our home suddenly felt? I needed time to adjust, to... to find myself again. But, did you give it to me? No, why would you? Did you ever ask for an explanation?

"Of course not. You just made your assumptions and ascertained yourself they were true. My opinion, my side of the story, never really mattered, did it? It was all about you."

"Ha!" He cried harshly. "About me? You've just been sitting and mopping around the apartment, ever since Jenna left! I couldn't talk to you; you hardly acknowledged my existence in the same space as you... and you expected me to talk to you? Initiate contact? There've been so many times, where I didn't want to come home; I preferred staying at the office late, just to avoid having to face you; having to witness you avoiding me like I was the plague.

"It hurt, Lana. It hurt really fucking bad."

"Apparently," Lana said, trying to stay calm and allow rationality to prevail in her head, "we were both at fault. Don't you thus think it's time we try to fix things? Make it right?"

"I don't know," he muttered, the words hardly coming out of his mouth. "Maybe, it's already too late."

"What are you talking about?" She exasperated. "You can't mean it! Robert?"

"I really don't know, Lana," he sighed heavily and drained his second beer; immediately, he reached in the refrigerator for a third.

* * * *

When the phone rang, Robert—despite his drunkenness—jumped up to answer it; Lana had barely managed to flinch and he was on it.

"Yes? Yes, that's me... what? No, you can't... no, no, it's not happening... NO, YOU'RE LYING YOU'RE KIDDING ME JOKING YOU GOT TO BE... okay, sorry, I'm... how? when? how? okay... no one? okay," he said amid intervals, impatiently and dizzily walking in circles with the phone pierced to his ear; his eyes quickly turned red, few tears started running down to his stubble.

"What happened?" She said leaning on the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed around her chest.

"George..." he whispered, still holding the phone, clearly not knowing what to do with himself.

"Yes?" She encouraged him to keep going, but, he was completely lost, his mind traveling to some distant galaxy.

"He's... dead," he said hoarsely, finally breaking down into painful sobs.

Lana rushed to him; he had knelt down, buried his face in his palms muffling his harrowing cries.

"I'm so sorry, baby," she said, taking his head in her bosom, and caressed him tenderly. "It's going to be alright, it's... I'm so sorry."

"Why? Why?" He kept whispering to himself, thunderstruck.

"How did it happen?" She asked him a few minutes later, after he had settled down slightly and had taken a seat on the couch, holding a glass of Four Roses, which bottle had been left there by George.

"Overdose," he muttered, staring at the bourbon as if his friend would rise out of it like an alcoholic phoenix.

"What?" She shrieked.

"Heroin overdose," he repeated, coolly.

"Robert," she said sterner, looking at him intensely. "Are you on drugs?"

"No," he dismissed her, fixated on his staring contest with the bourbon.

"Robert," she demanded. He looked up at her with sorrowful eyes. "Have you done heroin? Or any other drug?"

"No," he repeated coldly, staring dead into her eyes with a soulless gaze. "George refused to even hear about it; he said I was not the type. He said that drinking was alright, but, drugs were not.

"He made me promise never to try anything, even when he wasn't around."

"And you kept your promise, right?"

"Yes," he barked at her, impatiently. "Are we done with the interrogation?"

"Yes, I just... got worried, that's all."

"I'll have to take care of his funeral," he said, after a while.

"Why you?"

"He's got no one else," he replied.

"Parents? Friends? Girlfriend? Anyone?"

"Nope," he shook his head. "Well, his parents, and some childhood friends of his, live in his homecountry; they'll come, I imagine, when they find out, but... I'm the only friend he has, had, here; the only one that can take care of business directly.

"I'll do it, obviously; it'll be... an honor, I think. At any rate, I feel it's my duty, to say the least."

"Okay, but..." She started, but, had nothing to add.

"There are no buts," he said angrily. "He was my friend; stood by me, when I was at my worst, when I had no hope, no chance in hell of ever making it. I won't... I won't disappoint him now. I'll make sure everything's perfect."

"Alright, alright, I didn't mean anything by it," she raised her hands in surrender.

* * * *

The funeral was plain. Lana stood next to Robert, holding his hand throughout the ceremony, trying in any way she could to soothe him, as he, several times, came close to collapsing. At the same time, her gaze kept returning to Stan, who stood amid the other mourners, wearing a black tux and black shades.

After the ceremony, they all went to the graveyard's parlor, for coffee and sweets; several parties occupied the tables, sipping on their coffee and exchanging news, many of them relatives and friends who had not seen each other for a long time.

Lana was sitting next to Robert, who hardly smiled to whoever approached him and shook his hand. It was Lana, who did the talking, explained how they knew George. She couldn't stand seeing Robert in this condition, but, more so, she could not bear being in the same room with both Robert and Stan.

Stan was sitting at another table, surrounded by women; he was talking to them—cracking up jokes, if judged by the soft giggling that often broke off from their table. Jealousy burned Lana's heart, as she kept stealing glimpses of Stan, whom she hadn't seen in almost two weeks.

However, her heart skipped a beat, when she noticed Stan getting off his seat—heartily saying his farewells to the company of six women—and coming her way.

"Hey, man," Stan said, as he patted Robert's shoulder, barely acknowledging Lana, "how are you holding up?"

"Oh, hey," Robert lifted his glance and gave Stan a faint smile. "Not good, but... I'm hanging in there, man."

"Good," Stan pulled up a chair and sat next to him. "You were really close, huh?"

"Yeah..." Robert nodded sorrowfully. "He was my best friend, crazy as it may sound."

"He was a cool guy," Stan agreed. "Great guy, actually; just too set on a path of self-destruction."

"Oh," Robert said, and pointed at Lana," this is my wife, Lana. Lana," he told her, "this is Stan. A friend of George's... well, they used to hang out in the same bars, so..."

"Hello, Lana," Stan leaned forth and offered her his hand, which she shook, desperately trying to hide the horror swarming her hard-pounding heart. "Nice to meet you; I only wish we had met under more pleasant circumstances."

"Same here," she responded in a quaky voice, wishing she, too, was buried six feet under.

"Did you know George?" Stan asked her inconspicuously.

"Met him twice," she nodded, her voice turning rusty and shaky. "Can't say much about him, but... he did seem like a great guy, indeed."

"Yeah," Stan frowned. "You just... had to give him time; right?" He elbowed Robert, who had, once more, faded away to another world.

"Hmm?" He blinked fast, looked about completely taken aback. "Oh, yes," he then said, "he was a peculiar cat. But, he did have something that drew people to him."

"Even though he hated it," Stan added. "Everyone in the bars wanted to talk to him; and he'd listen. I don't think I've ever seen him shoo anyone away."

"True," Robert agreed. "He'd listen, but, he'd rarely speak."

"When he did, though," Stan added, "everyone listened."