There Must Be Something More

50 | Neighbor

"Who's taking out the trash tonight?" Mom asked, staring at Dad and me from across the table.

"Not it," she said.

"Not it," Dad said.

"You're it," she told me. 

I sighed. That had always been a family routine for us, calling shots who gets to do the chores. And the only reason why I was late for calling the shots was because I was too preoccupied about the new addition to the Grace Club and what might God have in store for us in the future.

"Beat you for the fourth time, chump," Dad said, giving me a playful punch on the shoulder. I made a face and carried the garbage bag over my shoulder.

I went out into the cold Clarkdale night. It was nights like these that I had time to think for myself other than my own room. There were no cars in sight, and the huge dumpster was set between our fence and our neighbor's. 

Now that I thought about it, I had never seen my actual neighbors. Just the old ones. A few weeks ago, we were told that the Cofferman family moved out and new people had settled in. I didn't see one glimpse of them, though. But judging by their backyard, they seemed to be a pretty neat family.  

Lawn gnomes and flamingos were decorated on their front lawn, and they had a Land Rover for a car. I dreamed about having one, but in the meantime, I had to be patient with my pickup.

I opened the dumpster lid and got a terrifying smell from inside. Holding my breath and tears, I dumped the garbage bag. Just as I slammed the lid shut, the door from our neighbor's swung open and a guy wearing a maroon hooded shirt came storming out. He had blond hair. He had his fists clenched and his scowl tightened. He looked straight ahead. 

I had the terrified feeling he might beat me to a pulp, I hurried to our lawn to avoid being involved.

But I heard a woman's scream from the inside of our neighbor's house: "You come back here, young man! We are not done discussing about this!"

"Yes, we are!" the guy shot back and disappeared into another street in a trot.

The woman stormed out of their porch and I realized she was probably in her twenties. She had long blond hair and she wore a gray tank top and denim cut-offs. When she saw me staring, she immediately walked back into the house and slammed the door.

I wanted quickly to get out of there. 

When I went back inside the house Dad saw my face and asked, "What happened? You look like you just saw a ghost."

"Just freaked out," I said, catching my breath. "Our neighbors were arguing."

"Yeah, I can hear them too in the middle of the night," Mom chimed in. She folded her hands to her chest and sat on the couch in the living room. "Other times I hear glass breaking. I thought about calling the police."

"Why didn't you?" I asked.

"I don't know. Something just held me back," my mom said, "I thought maybe I shouldn't jump to conclusions. Maybe someone just accidentally knocked a glass figure on the floor, I don't know. I didn't want to look or sound paranoid."

"I heard their last name is Kirby. But they don't go out and interact with the neighbors often, so that's as far as I know." Dad explained.

I took one last glance out the window and saw the woman pace back and forth in their lawn. She typed something on her phone and called someone. I didn't dwell on it.

----------

That Saturday morning I had plans with Trey and the rest of the team to play baseball just for fun in our neighborhood's diamond. I had especially showered and ate breakfast early. I was excited. I wanted to play baseball for fun for a change, I didn't like the pressure of practices all the time. 

I wore my baseball shirt and cap and carried my helmet and bat as I walked to my pickup.

And then I heard a voice behind me: "You play baseball?" 

I turned around and saw that it was our neighbor, the Kirby's. He was the one who had stormed out wearing a hooded shirt. But this time he wore a red flannel shirt. He looked at me cautiously, as if he was afraid I'd swing the bat at him.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "I'm the right-handed batter."

He smiled. "I'm the Closer."

"Cool!" I said. We shook hands. "I'm Charlie Borlock."

"Liam Kirby," he said. "Any chance I can join you?"

I stared at him.

He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry. Forget about it. I'm sure you have your own team to have fun with and--"

"No, I was just staring because why aren't you still riding shotgun?" I said. "Anyone who loves baseball like I do is a friend of mine. Come on."

He boggled at me. Then slowly he smiled. He ran back his house to get his stuff and slid in beside me in the front seat. I jammed the keys and the engine roared to life.

How could I have known I'd become good friends with my infamous neighbor?

----------

"Cool player. How'd you meet him?" Trey asked as we took a five-minute break on the bleachers. Liam and the others were talking from afar. All we could overhear was the ringing of their laughter.

"He's actually that neighbor I told you about," I said. "You know, the one who freaked me out when I took out the trash. Didn't expect he'd be into baseball."

Trey nodded. "He seems cool. Where did he say he plays?"

"West Shores Prep," I said. "Some kind of luxury school or something. He said he played as their Closer.

"Cool," Trey said.

"That's the third time you've said that."

We were silent for moments. And then a thought came to me, a swirling and throbbing thought that had bothered me ever since the kid from next door had called me from his side of the fence.

"He screams every night," I said. "Or he gets screamed at every night."

Trey looked oblivious. He raised a brow. "Who?"

"Liam," I said. "We could hear him and his sister, or at least I think it's his sister; they look oddly alike, arguing almost every night. I get the chills every time I hear glass breaking."

Trey scrunched his eyebrows. He looked at me hard. "What are they fighting about?" 

I shook my head. "I don't know."

"What about their parents? Don't they discipline them or something?"

"I don't think they live with their parents."

Trey closed his eyes. "So he and his sister are always fighting. I bet he thinks baseball is the only thing that understands him. I bet it's his only escape, at least he thinks so."

I looked at him. "Sounds like you know the feeling."

He opened his eyes, stared at me. "I do."