Pamela

Before staying at home permanently, I had spoken to my neighbor Pamela off and on. We'd never had long conversations, and every time I saw her she was with her husband. The husband I didn't really like, but she seemed to like him well enough so I never commented.

At the beginning of the summer, when I finally ditched the job I hated and launched headfirst into a writing career, I spoke to her more often. We exchanged those pleasantries that unfamiliar neighbors discuss. She knew that my wife had left me, and she had exchanged. It was a bit awkward at first, but eventually, that uneasiness subsided.

It's only when I started noticing her around the house during the daytime that I figured something was wrong. If I had to put a starting point on the day we really started building a relationship, I would say it was the day I stopped mowing my lawn long enough to ask her why she was home on a Wednesday afternoon.

“Oh, I didn't tell you? They've been downsizing at work and I got the ax. My package allows me to stay at home for a few months, so I decided to take the entire summer off. So you,” she said pointing at me, “will be seeing much more of me.”

“Uhm, that's nice,” I blurted out, immediately feeling like a fool.

She laughed and shook her head. “See you around, neighbor,” she said as she walked away.

Up to that day, I didn't think I fancied her.

***

I have a hexagonal white gazebo in the middle of my yard. Once in a while, when it's not too hot, I like to go there to write. Especially during the week, when most people are at work so all I hear is the laughter of children in the distance, birds, wind, and leaves rustling. It's the type of environment that suits my creativity and allows me to be the most productive.

Many writers want to remove as many distractions as possible, but I’m capable of keeping my concentration and not be distracted by everything going on around me. When the noise level is a little bit too high, I either put earbuds or, when I require a lot of concentration, I put earplugs to cut out all the noise. As long as it's not too hot, I'm able to produce my quota every day.

It's not as easy with a nosy neighbor.

As I was typing, I heard her say, “Hey neighbor, whatcha doing there?”

I looked up, and there she was behind her white chain-link fence overrun with vines, one elbow on the top rail, some kind of drink in hand. The other arm was lying flat on the rail.

“Hi, Pamela. Actually, I'm writing.”

“You're a writer? You never told me.”

“Well, it's pretty recent. Plus, it's not like you would see most of what I'm writing. It's all technical stuff, done on demand.”

“So no fiction?” She wrinkled her nose. Her pretty nose.

“Nothing published, no.”

“Unpublished then?”

“Uhm… Maybe?” I had a few stories written already, but I had never had the nerve to publish them. I certainly wasn't about to share that with her.

“Cool! Would I be able to read them someday? You know, so when you become famous I can say I knew you before you were you!”

“Uh… Yeah, okay. But they're all in various stages of incompleteness so nothing I really want to share right now.” Why did I not decline straight out?

“That's okay, I'm easy to please.”

I stared at her with what must have been a blank expression on my face.

“Okay then, I guess I'll leave you to it. It's probably easier for you to put words on paper! Cheers!” She raised her glass, took a sip, and walked away.

I felt like a fool. What was happening?

***

One day, as I was mowing the lawn, Pamela came out in a very skimpy bikini, glasses on her head. It was barely one in the afternoon and she already had a drink in hand. Did it contain alcohol or not? I didn't think it was any of my business. I didn't ask.

She came to the fence with that dazzling smile of hers. Her green eyes sparkled, and her auburn hair shone in the sunlight. As I passed beside her, I took in the coconut smell from her tanning lotion. Impressive that the smell overpowered that of the freshly cut grass. Unless my nose was honing on it. I noticed that her skin tone was much darker than usual. It made the few freckles she had almost disappear.

“Hey there, neighbor.” At least, that's what assumed she said when I saw her waving and smiling. I cut the motor.

“Hi Pamela, how are you?”

“I'm good. I decided that I was allowed to have an early afternoon sangria,” she shook the glass in her hand and I heard the ice cubes tinkle. “You're welcome to join me when you're done with your grass.”

“Uhm…”

“You're not really the assertive type, are you?”

She had me there.

“It's not that, I have a lot of writing to do and I’m just taking care of the grass to find a little bit of inspiration. But after I'm done, I need to get back to my writing.”

“Well, your loss.” She pulled the glasses from her head and set them appropriately on her nose. I could see my reflection in the large mirrored lens. “If you change your mind, come join me. A pool is always more interesting with company.”

“Thanks, I'll take that into consideration.”

I wrote indoors that afternoon.

***

She didn’t bother me the next day, or at least she didn't try to initiate contact. I guess she took the hint and was expecting me to come over and accept her invitation. But I couldn't.

Since Sarah left, after an initial period of adjustment, I’d finally found my rhythm. Things were going well, I was getting a lot of writing contracts, and companies, as well as individuals, were beginning to recognize my penmanship. I certainly did not want to put all of that in jeopardy for the sake of a married woman.

No matter how hot she looked.

***

It was easier to keep that resolve because, over the next few days, it rained every day. I still could have gone outside to write, but the wind made it such that I would have had to close everything. The whole point of writing outside in my gazebo is to be able to see and hear what was happening in the nature that surrounded me.

So I wrote, I cooked meals, and I watched more TV than usual. All of it to get my mind off Pamela.

When I did look outside toward her house, I noticed that her husband's car had been there for a while. It seemed to me like he had been at home more often.

I wondered if it was because of something Pamela said.

***

When the rain finally subsided and I went back to take care of the mess my yard had become, I noticed that Pamela's husband's car was still in the driveway. Even if it was a weekday.

As I mowed the lawn, I noticed Paul and Pamela stepping out of their house, each with a beer in hand. They seemed to be talking pretty loud, but I couldn't hear their voices over the roar of the lawnmower. I'm sure my noise-canceling headphones didn't help either.

I suppose I shouldn't jump to conclusions, but I remember that when things began to go south with Sarah, she had also started getting a little tipsy in the afternoon. Not too much, mind you, since the kids were around. But there was many a time when it helped to take the edge off, according to her.

I eyed my neighbors every time I came close to their yard. Paul was tickling her and seemed to take pleasure in Pamela trying to squirm away from him. I wasn't sure if Pamela's kicking was part of the game or not. Sarah had done her share of kicking me during our long-gone games. It was all in jest until one day it wasn't. Then any games that could potentially get raucous were banned from our repertoire.

I figured that Paul and Pamela's repertoire was vaster than ours.

***

I was proofreading my latest creation when I heard Pamela call my name.

She was wearing a large-brimmed hat and a dark green one-piece bathing suit. Her white robe covered her arms and shoulders. She was still wearing those ridiculously large sunglasses.

I waved to her in response, somewhat disappointed that she wasn't wearing a bikini.

She waved back but didn't move. I stared but since she wasn't budging, I decided to go see what she wanted. Because, why else would you just stay there and look at me without saying anything? Unless she was watching my every move like a predator, planning for the kill.

“Hi Pamela,” I said as I came up to her. She had no glass in hand at this time. Just a pool towel in her left hand.

“Hi Ryan,” she responded. I found her tone to be less jovial than usual. I pictured her as a happy drunk.

“What's up? I noticed that Paul was often at home these days.”

“Yes, he is.” Was that regret in her voice? It seemed like it to me. “He was laid off last week. He went to apply for unemployment benefits this morning and should be back anytime.”

“Ah, that explains it. I noticed that both of you seemed to be having a party yesterday afternoon.” I didn't try to suppress my smirk.

“Yeah, Paul really wanted to have a drink. And he wanted me to have one also.” She hesitated. “Can I tell you something in confidence?”

“Uh… Sure, I guess.”

“‘I guess?’ Does that mean I shouldn't trust you?”

“No, no, not at all,” I stumbled over my words. “I'm just surprised that you wanted to share a secret with me, that's all.”

“So I can trust you?”

“Yes, you can,” I replied with more confidence than I felt.

“Well,” she said after a beat, “I think Paul got fired because he was drinking on the job.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Are you guys okay?”

“From a financial point of view, yes. From a personal point of view, I don't know. Remains to be seen. He's drinking more now than before, and he doesn't like it if I don't drink with him.”

Alarm bells went up in my head. “Are you okay?” I repeated.

“Yeah, yeah, I guess so.” I don't think she meant it, but I didn't have time to say anything because Paul pulled into their driveway.

“Hey, Ryan! You not trying to steal that pretty wife of mine, are you?”

He probably meant it as a joke, but there was an underlying menace in his tone.

“Of course not, Paul. Wouldn't dream of it!” Good thing he couldn't read my

mind.

“Good, good. Hey Pam, come on in,” he said lifting a bag in his left hand. “I got some stuff to try out.”

“Coming honey.” Pamela waved to me, and said, “Bye, Ryan. Enjoy your writing.”

As she turned and walked away, I wondered what that black spot in her hand was.

***

Early this morning, there was a knock at my door. Even though it was unusual, I decided to ignore it. But after the knocking repeated three times, I finally got the energy to step out of bed and answer. I opened the door and was greeted by two cops. Behind them, I saw an ambulance. I was surprised that I didn't hear anything beforehand.

“Good morning officers, how can I help you?”

“Good morning sir, we’re sorry to bother you so early. I wanted to know if you knew your neighbors and if you had contact with them in recent times?”

“Well, I speak to the wife Pamela regularly. Paul is not there very often, but I say hi. Why? What's happening?”

“There was an incident overnight. Can you tell me if you have been aware of any domestic disturbances in recent days or weeks?”

“Not that I know of, but like I said we talk a bit, but not much.”

“And have you noticed anything alarming with your neighbor’s wife recently?”

“No, not really. The last time we spoke was yesterday. She told me that her husband had lost his job and that he was drinking more. I asked her if she was in trouble, she said no. Why, what happened? Is she okay?”

“Well, sir, unfortunately not. The husband called us early this morning saying that his wife had had an accident. We suspect that he killed her. We might have to ask you to come to the station to give a deposition. Would that be okay?”

I was taken aback. “Yes, that would be okay.”

“Thank you, sir, for your cooperation. Here's my card with the station’s number. Please call us this afternoon. I put the case number on the card. Please give that case number when you call and somebody at the office will tell you what to do. Thank you again for your cooperation and apologies for waking you up so early.”

It took the card and closed the door without another word.

The rest of the morning passed in a daze.

***

I went to the station midafternoon and gave a deposition. There wasn't really much I could say.

When I left the station, I picked up a paper in a nearby convenience store.

As I went up to the cash register to pay for the paper, I stopped dead in my tracks. At the counter, behind the cashier, was a small poster containing the drawing of a hand with a black spot in the middle of the palm. Under the poster were these words: “Draw a black spot in your hand if you are a victim of domestic violence but are afraid to speak out.”