New Neighbour (The)

The New Neighbour

From the living room window, fifty-three-year-old Eve Moore watched a
moving van stop in front of the vacant house next door. She grabbed the
binoculars and removed her glasses, focusing on the Maine license plate
as two burly men climbed out of the van. One stood and lit a cigarette
while the other unlatched the gate, walked up to the house and unlocked
the door. Music blared from the van. They unloaded an eight-foot crate
and carried it into the house. After locking the door, they drove
away.

An hour later a limousine arrived. Eve grabbed her binoculars again and
watched the driver leave in a taxi.

The sun reflected off something on the road where the van had stopped.
She marched out, holding her hands on her hips, and picked up a book
off the ground, titled: The Bridges of Madison County. She felt the
smoothness of the book jacket with a palm while she stood and observed
the house.

A rusty iron gate surrounded the long-empty mansion--a grand Victorian
in need of repairs; too expensive for most people looking to buy in the
area. It had been for sale for years. Eve had heard rumours that the
town was contemplating purchasing the property as an historic
site.

The house had been built in 1850 by a wealthy shipbuilder from Halifax,
Nova Scotia. It had been used by his two sons while attending school in
Windsor, run by a full staff of household servants. The father remained
in Halifax with his wife and five daughters to run his business. After
the sons had graduated, the house was sold. Except for a short stint as
a boarding house in 1902, the place had been a summer home for several
different owners.

She flicked her hair and walked back to her house. She'd read the book
and then give it to her niece when she visited later in the summer.
Wilson was her only sibling, a brilliant physician, who had moved his
family to Toronto after university.

There was an excitement in the air she hadn't felt since Harry proposed
when she was twenty-nine. He was an accountant who wore Clark Kent's
glasses, and smoked thin cigars. After two years of marriage, Harry got
contact lenses, quit smoking, and started pumping iron. The new
Superman slept with his secretary; Eve sent him packing.

She enjoyed living in Windsor in the small, two-story home she'd lived
in with her parents until they passed away. Handy with a paint brush
and good at wallpapering, Eve would sometimes wander around the house,
while goodies baked, sipping tea, thinking what she'd do next. To relax
from her mundane duties at the library and to collect her thoughts, a
few hours of crocheting or knitting always did the trick. The couch and
chair were covered with multicolored knitted afghans.

Eve lived within walking distance of everything, and was close enough
to the water to hear the seagulls. Working in the library suited her
quiet lifestyle, but someone moving in next door was terribly exciting.
Eve considered herself half reclusive and half sociable.

Later that night after a supper of clam chowder and some of her
fresh-baked rolls, Eve sat on her front porch reading a paperback by
Taylor Caldwell, who had been her mother's favourite writer. Small
sounds stirred in the mature spruce trees across the street; birds
among the branches fluttered and chirped. She stopped reading and her
eyes were at half-mast but a flicker from a window next door caught her
eye. It must have been her imagination, for the windows were
dark.

She was about to step inside when the white limousine drove out of the
garage next door. Fog was moving in off the Avon River, which was
normal for any part of the Bay of Fundy. But the evening sky suddenly
turning black wasn't normal. Then came a shower of hailstones the size
of marbles. Hugging herself against the sudden cold, she darted
inside.

Once a week, Eve got down the photo albums from the closet. It wasn't
that the photographs of her dead parents, or of her brother and her
when they were tots made her happy. In fact the opposite was true; they
had a melancholy effect upon her. Sometimes she'd begin to weep and
she'd dab at her eyes with a Kleenex as she turned the pages.

The pictures brought back memories of her youth, of picking
blueberries, of walking along the dykes, of baloney sandwiches and
Koolaid at the beach: a time so near in her mind, but so far away in
years. One large picture of her parents, her brother and herself hung
in the living room.

She had had a happy childhood. Maybe she missed the unconditional love
of her family. She had adored her parents--still missed them endlessly,
and thought the world of her brother. She wondered why women wanted
love when something always came along to ruin it: jealousy, death, or
sickness.

Two evenings a week Eve volunteered at the library. On Saturday
evenings she went to play bingo at the church. A few men there had
asked her out, but she always declined. She felt caged -- trapped in
the past, struggling with the present.

After putting the albums away, Eve went to bed. She couldn't sleep so
she turned on the light and read some of the book she had found next
door until the bugs hitting the window screen annoyed her too much to
continue. She considered taking a sleeping pill, but changed her mind
when she realized how soon morning would come. She thought about her
new neighbour and about the workload at the library. So much to do, she
thought. She wanted to be clear-headed.

In the morning after two slices of toast with jam, and a cup of black
tea, she left for work. A crow sat on the roof of the house next door.
The sky was reflected in the windows. She stopped, and looked at the
place for a moment or two, then continued on her way.

That night she found a note on her doorstep written in fine, red ink:
"I noticed you walking by this morning. I have just moved in. Will you
come for a glass of wine tonight around seven-thirty?"

The paper felt thick, expensive. She put the note to her face and
smelled it, closing her eyes. There was a distinct masculine scent.
Standing on the doorstep, she glanced over at the house.

This person couldn't expect a lady just to walk over and knock at a
stranger's door, she thought. She scribbled on the reverse side:
"Sorry, I'm busy tonight," and taped it to the mailbox at the foot of
his driveway.

The following evening, while sitting on the front porch reading, the
limousine crawled by. Suddenly feeling foolish, but excited, she waved,
wondering who was behind the tinted windows. It drove away, tail lights
fading into the night.

She was making herself too familiar to someone she hadn't even met.
She'd stay inside for the next few evenings, and not be so overtly
curious.

During the night, she was awakened by a rapping at her front door. She
had been having a nightmare: hungry rats were sniffing around her body.
She was so groggy it took a minute or two to realize what she was
hearing, and to come fully awake. She switched on the bedside lamp,
slipped on her housecoat and went downstairs, unaware that in her rush,
she had knocked her bible to the floor and it had slid under the
bed.

She peeked between the curtains on the door. No one there. The street
was quiet. Walking back upstairs, she gasped as she thought she saw
someone peer in the window next to the staircase. She did a double
take, then laughed at herself, realizing the window was at least
fifteen feet off the ground.

In her bedroom, she studied her reflection in the mirror--a petite
woman whose eyes were still youthful. Full lips. In her last year of
high school, she had been crowned prom queen. Her beauty had stayed
with her.

The rest of the night she slept peacefully.

The next day after lunch, the library had a staff meeting. The
administrator said that a reclusive writer had just moved into town,
and had granted some time on a Saturday of their choosing to meeting
with the public and do a signing. "A very famous writer, I must add,
and all proceeds from any book sales will go to the library." They were
told to keep it to themselves that the author now lived in their town.
Eve smiled, assuming that the famous writer, maybe the remarkable
Robert James Waller lived right next door to her. Perhaps she'd rethink
that invitation to stop by for a drink.

That night, another note was on her door: "I hope you will reconsider
my offer and come by for a visit this evening. I hope you won't take
offense if I say that you are an attractive woman. Don't knock; please
just come right in. Seven-thirty would be good. I look forward to
meeting you."

Just then, two boys were walking up the sidewalk eating slices of
watermelon. She glanced at them. One said to the other, "Machine gun,"
as he spit several seeds out. They hooted.

Eve smiled to herself as they ambled away. She was suddenly in a
fantastic mood. She was middle-aged, yet even from a car a famous
writer had acknowledged her beauty. She hummed as she bathed, dressed,
and did her makeup. She unwrapped the perfume her brother had given her
for Christmas several years before and dabbled a little behind her ears
and on her neck and wrists.

She was just locking the door when her neighbour, Mrs. Barkhouse,
called from the street. "Eve, did someone buy the mansion?" She noticed
how lovely Eve looked, all dolled up. "Obviously you're dressed up for
something special."

"I can't talk right now," Eve said, glaring at her with stony eyes. She
stepped back inside and slammed the door, peeking out the window as
Mrs. Barkhouse walked on past, heading to her home. Eve felt like a
schoolgirl, but she wanted this secret admirer all to herself, with no
one knowing. She watched Mrs. Barkhouse disappear up the street.

The house next door was dark when Eve arrived, but the streetlight lit
its outline. Her heart beat rapidly as she turned the brass doorknob
and stepped inside.

One candle was lit in the living room. As her eyes slowly adjusted, she
saw the sofa-like fixture. She gasped as someone sat straight up in it
and turned to look at her. He smiled. She ran for the door and yanked
at the doorknob.

"Shall we have a glass of wine?" he asked in a soft, deep voice. He
appeared about fifty-five years old. Distinguished looking, dressed
entirely in black. He could have been on the cover of GQ. Short, grey
wavy hair, bushy eyebrows. She watched in fascinated horror as he
climbed out of the coffin and poured two glasses of wine. She could
make out a pair of fangs.

She screamed, twisting the doorknob with both hands.

"It's no use. It won't open. Now please relax and join me for a
drink."

"NO!" she screamed. As her eyes locked on his, she felt herself
relaxing. She tried to fight the lassitude, but she was feeling the
strongest passion she had ever known.

"I have watched you sleep for two nights through your windows," he
admitted.

He took a step toward her, passing her a glass. A smell of perfume, of
woman, filled his senses. As she automatically took a sip of red wine,
some dribbled down her chin and dropped onto her silk blouse. She
didn't care. She no longer cared about anything at all as she gazed at
his eyes, unable to look away. She drank some more of the wine, filled
with the most wonderful sense of expectation. She had never been
happier.

"I need you," she whispered.