Elise Wallen-Friedman: Neighborhood Watch • Cleaver Magazine

Fiction by Elise Wallen-Friedman
NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH

The Zoo

Mrs. Rothenbloom stares at the sheet music propped up on her piano. She taps her foot, her light-brown sock padding into the shag rug carpet. AC pumps through the house, so the air is cold and crisp. The piano is at the center of the living room, dark black varnish wearing away at the leg corners. A leather armchair, ottoman, and matching loveseat sit nearby. When her husband gets home from work, he puts his feet up on the ottoman and sighs, linking his arms behind his head, calloused fingers laced together. There is a permanent indentation on the ottoman now, even when Mr. Rothenbloom is not home. Across from the ottoman, on the corner of the piano, there is a brass sculpture of a turtle just bigger than a bowling ball. When Mrs. Rothenbloom gets the same passage wrong again, she bangs her fist down on top of the turtle’s gleaming hard shell. She does not say anything, only exhales, drops her shoulders, closes her eyes, and starts again.

Mrs. Rothenbloom and the piano are visible from the entryway. A wooden coat rack, painted brown, stands next to a white closet door with button-shaped handles. A small, faded, gray-green throw rug lies next to an umbrella stand filled with the canes Mr. Rothenbloom collects. Each has an animal head built into the rounded handle, a crow with a sharp yellow beak, an anteater with wide eyes, a monkey with slicked back hair and an outstretched arm, a faded pink flamingo with long painted lashes, still another a leopard waving a skinny tail. Mr. Rothenbloom never uses them, instead they stare at Mrs. Rothenbloom, her hands moving in waves along the keys of the piano. The animals watch her, exchange glances, tilt their heads to hear better.

Routine

A grandmother heaves herself off the couch, hovering in midair like she might fall back into sitting again. The couch is yellow and stiff, and looks like it’s never been used before, even though she does her crossword there every morning, her bones pressing into the firm, rectangular cushions. She drinks tea with her puzzle, always out of the same oversized sky-blue mug, leaving the tea bag in so the flavor gets richer, more bitter, the longer she sits. Brown rings stain the mug. For breakfast, she pours orange juice into bran flakes, waits until the flakes are soggy enough that she doesn’t have to chew. The pale, orange-pink kitchen tiles are cold against her feet. She can see webs of blue and purple veins stretching down her leg, across her foot, as if leading to her untrimmed, ridged toenails. Where are her slippers? She smooths out her pink nightgown and walks to her bedroom. The red Persian rug is softer, warmer. She clutches the brass bed frame, catches her breath. The steel alarm clock says it’s just past nine. Time to get moving.

Clover

At her friend’s house, Angie lies in the grass. She digs her fingers into the dirt, lifts up a clump of clover and its patchy, clotted roots and sprinkles the dirt slowly to the ground. When she was little, her dad taught her to search for four-leaf clovers within the mass of ordinary, uninteresting three-leaf clovers. He dried them, pressed them flat in heavy books, before laminating them into small ready-to-use bookmarks. Angie squints up at the sun drizzling through the layer of vibrant green leaves hanging overhead. Macy flops on the ground next to her, a 100-degree angle apart, strands of her long blond hair overlapping and falling on top of Angie’s. Birds chirp, overpowered by bursts of a jackhammer drilling on the street nearby.

“I could never kiss a girl,” Macy says.

“Oh,” Angie says.

“Like, I can’t imagine how that would even happen, you know?” The siding of Macy’s house is matte, a light gray-green flecked with mud and water stains.

“I guess.” Angie hadn’t kissed anyone yet. Not even Eric, who stared at her all last semester when she came out of the changing rooms for gym, eyes locked on her too-tight white shirt while they played kickball.

“Could you?” Macy asks.

The jackhammer starts again. Angie looks at the small vegetable garden, wire hexagon mesh surrounding it, protecting it from deer, squirrels, rabbits. She thinks she sees the start of a tomato, round and yellow-green.

“Angie?” Macy asks again.

The Pool

Brandon races around the pool deck, bare feet slapping along the half-wet concrete. He wears a light blue swim shirt, with neon green sleeves and inflated orange arm floaties. Dark blue and white pool tiles sparkle in the sun. Every fifteen feet, a ceramic NO DIVING tile pops out, red circle slash over a black silhouette cracking his head against the pool floor, flashes of red resulting. Is it blood? Brandon giggles and throws himself off the edge into the water, more jump than dive. The splash sends water lapping over the pool walls, into the sopping white grates that encase the pool, wafting chlorine. Brandon gurgles, spits out a mix of spit and pool water and kicks his feet, sharp and fast, sending out a frothy white whirlpool. A single row of pool chairs line the deck, faded white plastic bands sagging in between strips of empty space. The neighborhood complex wanted to replace them last year with wooden slatted lounge chairs, but no one voted to contribute toward the cost. Mothers stand under an oversized umbrella, its metal center post drilled into the concrete pool deck. They are talking and watching, never looking at each other, only the bobbing heads. Brandon waves at someone in the group, hand flapping back and forth, his smile revealing flat, rectangular baby teeth and a missing front tooth. A woman with magenta barrettes waves back, hair tucked behind her ears. With the sunlight, the water glistens, wind-brushed ripples glinting and curving in the late morning heat. Brandon does not notice the gob of sunscreen rinsing off the back of his neck and into the pool water.

The Organist

Mr. Rothenbloom works at the same church as his wife. He is groundskeeper, handyman, electrician, soup kitchen server, chair stacker. Mrs. Rothenbloom is the organist. Before every service, she paces, alone, next to the organ. The wooden floor creaks, dusty except where Mrs. Rothenbloom walks each week. The bench for the organist is on the second floor, tucked at the back of a balcony, away from the view of congregants on the first floor. The golden organ pipes are massive, stretching from the floor, up past Mrs. Rothenbloom, to the very edge of the ceiling. She tests the pedals again, pumping her feet down then letting go. She never makes a mistake until the chorus starts. The singers distract her, confuse her with their echoing voices, their round, elongated syllables. They wear long pleated red gowns that hang off their bodies. The men stand in the center, the women on either side. One woman wears two magenta barrettes, one above and behind each ear. In the dim light of the church, the magenta looks gray.

Guard

Andrew sits on top of the two-story wooden lifeguard chair. He leans back against the slats, splaying his legs. The wood is crisp from the sun. When large drops of pool water splatter the arms, they dry within minutes, the damp patches shrinking, fast, until they disappear. From his perch, Andrew can see the whole length of the pool. He chews gum as he scans, from the white paneled fences, past the gaggle of mothers, the swath of concrete, sparkling teal water, heads bobbing, orange arm floaties, the diving board wiggling in the air from the last jumper, back to the white paneled fence. Above it all, Andrew’s head glides back and forth on a perfect swivel, his eyes hidden behind a narrow pair of shades. He is still skinny, despite a summer of teaching swim lessons, stacking pool deck loungers, and lifting weights. His hair has turned sandy blond from the sun and chlorine. Across his knees, he balances a long red rescue tube with large block letters spelling out GUARD. It is nearly as tall as him. Flecks of red paint slough off the foam rescue tube, camouflaged by his crimson swim trunks.

Kids giggle in the water below, slapping their hands flat against the surface of the water. Andrew runs his palms along the arms of the chair, and a sliver slides deep into his index finger. A tiny dot of brown appears at its point of entry. When he pushes on the fleshy pad of his finger, the tip pokes out. He picks at the splinter, glancing up at the kids clambering out of the pool, chasing each other, weaving between chairs and legs of adults.

“WALK,” Andrew yells.

The sun blisters against his already tan skin. The splinter won’t come out.

Lesson

At the door, Brandon slips off his flip-flops and places them in the corner of the rubber shoe mat, next to the animals. He pads across the plush living room carpet to the piano, where Mrs. Rothenbloom waits.

“How was your week?” she asks.

“My friend Zach got this new super-soaker for his birthday,” Brandon chatters.

“How lovely,” Mrs. Rothenbloom says, pulling out the etude book from Brandon’s bag.

“It even has double barrels,” Brandon says.

“Start with 4C.”

Under the piano, Brandon stacks a tower of wooden black boxes next to the pedals, high enough so his feet can rest without dangling. He climbs onto the piano bench, forming perfect ninety-degree angles with his body and bringing his hands to rest above the keys before starting. The wrinkled pruney fingers from the pool are long gone. Now, his hands swing across the keyboard. On accented notes, he strikes the keys, and deep inside, the felt hammers collide with the strings.

Mrs. Rothenbloom sits on the edge of the yellow upholstered rocking chair she’s pulled up to the piano, her back completely straight. She smiles as Brandon plays, tapping the rhythm onto her legs. He is one of a kind. Halfway through the etude, she stops him. He lifts his feet off the wooden boxes, leaving a sweaty outline of his toes. She corrects a note in his chord.

“Brandon, relax your shoulders. Watch your hand position.”

While Mrs. Rothenbloom talks, Brandon pets the head of the turtle. Slow, careful motions, like brushing the mane of a horse. Like he’d learned at his uncle’s ranch all the way out in Arizona. The turtle sighs, happy.

“Brandon,” Mrs. Rothenbloom says. “Are you listening?”

Lunch

The grandmother turns on the living room TV. The remote is black and boxy, with a red power button and large arrows pointing in each direction. She clicks over to channel 56. NCIS. Small grey speakers pump out the beat of the theme song. The team is in the morgue, standing around a water-logged body. A pair of scrubs explains the damage to Special Agent Gibbs. He wears a brown-gray suit coat and his eyebrows arch up in a perpetual question. The grandmother leans back in the tan La-Z-Boy, lifts her chin up, and peers down through her bifocals at the needlepoint for her granddaughter. The design features a school of fish, swimming against a blue and green background. The clownfish spell out the letter L, for Lauren. She runs her hand along the bumpy surface. Special Agent Gibbs talks to the fiancée of the victim, asks her if he’d changed since returning from deployment.

The grandmother sets down her work, eases herself up and over to the kitchen. Tacked to the wall, the calendar’s top half shows August’s cute puppy. A Scottish Terrier with a purple checkered bandana poses in a poppy field. She finds the day circled in yellow highlighter—only two weeks until Lauren returns from summer camp. Until then, the grandmother can visit the lifeguard. She spreads a thick layer of mayonnaise on white bread before placing five wet slices of cured ham on top. After cutting the sandwich into four triangles, she wraps it in wax paper, folding it into one sharp, even crease, and places it in a Ziploc bag. Special Agent Gibbs’ voice is faint in the background.

Skipping Stones

Angie and Macy walk along the river. The path is all dirt and dust, coughing up clouds of powder around their sandal-strapped feet. On one side, close to the river, tall yellow-green grasses and weeds sway in the afternoon breeze. On the other side, a hill rises up sharply, tree roots battling along its incline. Wisps of cloud drift across the baby blue sky. Macy climbs sideways along the hill, feet tilting to the side, her hands gripping the branches hanging overhead.

At the edge of the water, Angie crouches down in the dirt and digs for little stones. She picks out a dull red one, a smooth gray oval, and a turquoise rock dotted with black. She tosses them into the river, one by one, and hears their plop, distinct from the steady trickle of water. Macy stands above her.

“Do you not know how to skip stones?”

Angie shrugs, more reflex than answer.

“Haven’t tried yet,” she says.

“I’ll teach you,” Macy says. Without waiting, she takes the rock from Angie’s hand and flicks it across the water. It dances over the riverbed, bouncing with the light, three perfect skips. “It’s all in the wrist.”

Macy bends down next to Angie, grabs her hand, and mimics the whipping motion. Angie can hear Macy’s breathing behind her. Macy is still holding onto her hand. She suddenly lets go.

“You try,” Macy says, standing up.

Angie grabs a rock and tosses it. It falls into the water a foot away, a hollow sound.

Accident

The grandmother delivers the sandwich to Andrew’s station. She wears a wide-brimmed fishing hat and presents the Ziploc like an award. He takes out the sandwich and unfolds the wax paper, slimy with mayonnaise. Andrew licks each of his fingers before wiping them on his trunks. They both face the pool, the grandmother’s hat almost level with his knees.

“I don’t know how you keep track of them,” she says. Andrew laughs.

“The kids or the moms?”

The grandmother stares out at the children racing past the pool chairs, the puddles of water collecting along the concrete, the girl sobbing next to a pair of goggles with a snapped elastic band.

“If I were you,” she says, “I’d keep a notebook with all their names. And a list of the offenses they commit.”

Andrew frowns and turns toward her, hunching down to be closer.

“Come again?”

A shriek pierces the air. Bright red billows out from the center of the pool. More screams echo as heads whip around to see the growing cloud.

“Everybody out,” Andrew shouts. He waves his arms in big sweeping movements. “Clear the pool. Clear out. Out!”

The swimmers flee to the edges, a rush of bobbing heads and kicking legs. Mothers wield towels, stretching them out like matadors as the kids clamber out. Andrew dives in, swimming a perfect breaststroke to the blood’s source. A freckle-faced boy treading water. The boy’s bangs are plastered to his dripping red face, and each push of his arms sends more blood out into the water.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“They just got put in,” the boy says.

“Who?”

“The stitches.” The boy lifts up his bangs, blood streaming down in rivulets from a gash along his forehead. Andrew sighs and wonders if the mothers will blame him for the pool closure.

D#

After her last lesson, Mrs. Rothenbloom fills the blue kettle and places it on the stove, water sloshing inside. The kettle’s enamel is chipped, leaving patches of black to poke through. She turns the knob all the way left and listens for the rapid click-click-click of the igniter followed by the whoosh of the flame.

She cannot get the sound of Kayla’s rendition of Für Elise out of her head. Absolute rushing. Just unbelievable. Her fingers couldn’t keep up. Even the metronome didn’t help, Kayla’s notes muddling and disappearing faster than the pendulum could swing. Faster and faster and—

The kettle is screeching, a perfect D. Or is it D#? Mrs. Rothenbloom leaves the kettle on the stove and listens. The Pomegranate Passion tea bag lies limp and dry at the bottom of the mug. She sighs, turning the knob to OFF. Brandon has perfect pitch—he would know.

She pours the steaming water and watches as it trickles down the mug and balloons the tea bag below. She lifts up the string of the bag and bobs it in the water, waiting for the color to change.

Ride

Andrew clips together the chin strap of his shiny blue and white helmet. He slaps the top of it a few times, readjusts, and flips up the kickstand of his moped. It’s a red and silver beauty, pristine except for the dent on the tank cover from the previous owner.

Andrew revs the engine and pulls out of the parking lot. Trees line both sides of the road, branches arching above, forming interconnected tendrils of shade. Except for the soft whir of the engine, the road is quiet. The drive is peaceful, easy until the highway. The merge is more prayer than technique. Andrew wobbles as he stretches out his left arm, T-Shirt sleeve flapping. He angles across three lanes before reaching the shoulder. Wind shakes his lips as cars speed past in the next lane, less than an arm’s length away. Gusts knock into him, and the wheels of the moped slide and grind against the dirt-gravel shoulder of the highway. He feels his traction slip before he starts to fall.

His head smacks the concrete divider. He skids to a stop, pinned beneath the moped.

He sits up slowly, then pulls himself up. Cars continue whizzing by. He hops around on one foot, the other dragging in the dirt. The skin is gone in a strip running down his leg, from his shorts to his calf. The strip is red and raw, with specks of dirt and gravel embedded throughout. Dark beads of blood drip down. Using his pointer and his thumb, he digs out the largest chunks of gravel. The red is sticky and tender. God, that will sting in the pool.

He rights the scuffed and dirty moped, balancing himself on the seat. He slaps the top of his head, pauses, and unclips his helmet. A crack bisects the left and right sides. He runs his finger across the jagged fissure, before reclipping his helmet and revving the moped’s engine once more.

After Hours

The sky is a dark blue. Only faint strips of light still smudge the horizon. The dulled beginnings of stars appear, and a light breeze washes through the trees, rustling the leaves. In the damp grass, Angie picks at the edge of a scab on her knee, peeling up the crusty edges. She lifts it just enough to see the damp pink underneath.

“We should go to the pool,” Macy says.

“I think it’s probably closed now,” Angie says. Macy rolls her eyes and hangs her mouth open.

“Duh,” she says. “That’s what makes it fun.” She does a mock pirouette in the wet grass, leaving behind a patch of mud, before taking off toward the pool. “Are you coming?” she shouts over her shoulder.

They stop at the fence around the pool. It’s quiet and still.

“Well?” Macy prompts.

Angie laces her fingers around one of the chain link diamonds. She taps the scuffed toe of her sneakers against the concrete. Her feet feel clumsy.

“You gonna go?” Macy says, tilting her head.

Angie shakes the fence and listens to its rattle. The fence is over a foot taller than her.

“Is it even sturdy enough?” Angie says.

Macy laughs and steps forward, grabbing the fence to stop its bouncing. She stands face-to-face with Angie.

“Really, are you that scared?”

Angie swallows, notices the fine hairs on Macy’s upper lip, the slight offset between her two front teeth, and the faded stain from an afternoon cherry Icee on her lips. Angie’s breathing is jagged. It must be so loud.

Macy leans in and kisses her. Her lips are soft. She places her hand on Angie’s neck, pulling her in. When she draws back, Macy is staring at her. Before Macy can say anything, Angie hooks her foot into the fence, and pushes herself up and over its pointed tips. Angie’s sneakers slap down onto the concrete on the other side.

Bedtime

Brandon buttons his favorite pajama shirt. Lasso-slinging cowboys on a light blue background, with shorts to match.

“You brush your teeth?” asks his mom. He nods, three vigorous shakes. “Let’s see.” He bares his teeth and wiggles his tongue through the gap from his lost tooth. She smiles and laughs. “All right, munchkin, in bed.”

She pulls the sheets up to his chin, tucks in the edges around each shoulder.

“Quiz me,” Brandon says.

“It’s late—past your bedtime.”

“Just five minutes,” Brandon says. His mom shakes her head. “Three minutes. Two,” he begs.

“Fine, but then lights out, no excuses.” She adjusts her barrettes. “Relative major of C minor?”

“E flat.”

“Enharmonic equivalent of E flat?”

“D sharp. C’mon, ask something hard.”

“D major augmented fourth?”

“G sharp.”

Back and forth, they volley, pausing only while she thinks of more questions. Finally, his mom stands up, kisses his forehead, and flicks off the light. Brandon listens for his mom’s padded footsteps and the latch of his parents’ door down the hall.

He reaches under the bed and pulls out his Night Piano. Panels of old cardboard duct-taped together, with thin, shaking lines of Sharpie where he’d outlined the keys. In the dark, he feels for the star sticker marking middle C. He sits on the edge of his bed, balancing the cardboard across his knees, and straightens his back. The cadenza’s running notes float through his head as his fingers dance across the drawn-on keys. The only sound is their tapping.

Diving Board

Macy and Angie stand just inside the fence. From the edge, they see the manager’s office in the corner, the rows of empty white pool chairs, the diving board, and the cinderblock changing rooms.

Macy walks to the door of the manager’s office, tries the handle, and walks inside. The left wall supports two dented aluminum file cabinets. Another wall holds a window looking out to the pool area, but its shades are drawn. In the center, a metal tan desk and rusting lamp take up most of the room. Behind the desk sits a rolling chair, its cushion covered by brown carpet-like cloth. Macy drops into the seat, leans back, and props her mud-caked sneakers on the desk.

“Whaddya mean you can’t work a double on Saturday?” she shouts, hands in the air, mock expression of horror.

“What are we doing in here?” Angie asks. “Isn’t the whole point of the pool to swim?”

“We can do that anytime. Can’t ever get in here during the day.” Macy opens the top drawer of the desk, poking through a highlighter, three used Q-tips, and a half-eaten donut, the chocolate frosting crusted over. “Wanna bite?”

Angie rolls her eyes. “What are you even looking for?”

Macy pulls out a thick manila folder filled with papers. Chlorine tablet order forms, lifeguard timesheets, and receipts spill out.

“You’re going to lose something,” Angie says.

Macy picks up each piece of paper by the corners, her pinkies in the air, and places them back into the folder. She slides the folder back into a lower desk drawer.

“Happy?”

Outside the office, they climb onto the pool chairs. It’s dark now, the sky an ink-black. Macy walks the white plastic bands like tightrope, arms out for balance. With each step, her sneakers sink, stretching the worn chairs even more. Angie follows behind, planting her feet across the metal bars supporting each chair. They travel along the row, parallel to the pool. Five chairs from the deep end, Macy stops.

“Oh my god, what is that?” She points to the ground.

“A puddle?”

“No, it looks like—it looks like blood,” Macy says.

“You know, if you wanna leave you can just say so. You don’t have to make stuff up.”

“I’m not lying. Look. It’s dark red.”

Macy crouches on the ground and bends over the puddle. She sticks her index finger in, swirling it around.

“Why are you touching it?” Angie shrieks. “That’s disgusting.”

“Ve vampires vant blood,” Macy says, turning back with a smile showing every tooth. “Ve are very happy to share,” she says, extending the bloody finger slowly.

“Cut it out,” Angie says. “I’m serious, Macy, you better not touch me with that.”

Macy starts to lower her finger, then jumps forward. Angie dodges, yelps, and begins running. Macy chases after her, and they are both laughing, feet pounding on the ground, breathing hard. Angie weaves around the diving board, sprinting back toward the office. Behind her, she hears a thud, a heavy cracking sound against the concrete, and a splash.

She whips around. She can’t see Macy.

“Macy?”

The surface of the pool is black. The outline of the diving board is faint and wobbling. Just below, there’s a ripple in the water, its rings growing bigger, like after throwing a stone.

“Macy, are you okay?”

Angie runs toward the pool. The ripple is starting to fade, the water becoming smooth again. She dives in. Immediately, she begins to sink. Water fills her shoes, clings to her shirt, and pulls her down. She opens her eyes, searching for Macy, but the chlorine burns. She shuts her eyes, then opens them again. Stop-motion views of the dark, swirling water around her.

She claws at the water, fighting to the surface. Big gulp of air. Down again. Eyes open, eyes closed. Open, closed. Eyes stinging. No Macy. Just black.

Back to the top again, splashing, her lungs heaving. She breathes in water, coughs, and chokes. Back down, swimming to new parts of the pool. Are they new parts? Just more black. Still no Macy.

Her arms hurt. Her legs feel dead and disconnected. When she reaches the surface, she clings to the edge of the pool. The cold water bites at her skin. She sobs.

Out of the water, her clothes seal against her skin. She climbs over the fence and starts the walk home, her shoes squelching in the mud and grass. Water falls into each footprint. It snakes along the indents made by the soles of her shoes, twisting to fill every gap.

Neighborhood Watch

The grandmother steps outside, shutting the door behind her. The night is cold and beautiful. Stars pierce through the black canopy of sky. The grandmother finds Venus, brighter and bigger than the rest.

She ambles down the block. She passes the golden retriever squatting in his yard, the fire pit coughing up smoke and embers, and the teenagers cuddling on a porch swing. Past the houses, past the corner with its green signs and white block lettering, past the warm glow of the streetlight. She passes the pool, its chain link fence and cinder block buildings. Quite the incident today. The boy, the blood. No matter. Soon, Lauren will be back from camp. They will do needlepoint together. The grandmother is happy. In her red wool sweater, she is safe and warm. She keeps walking.

Elise Wallen-Friedman is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, where she studied neuroscience, creative writing, and chemistry. She is also a former Editor-in-Chief of The Penn Review. “Neighborhood Watch” is her first publication.