ThisTimeNextDoor Read Free Page A

world outside.
    Sometimes? More like always. Was this what he wanted when he quit teaching? Living with his mother at twenty-nine years of age, never leaving the house, never seeing a soul who wasn’t related to him?
    He went over and flipped up the shade. Bright sun shining over the Golden Gate made him squint.
    What a waste. He had a million-dollar view from his own bedroom and he didn’t even look at it. His mother’s house in the hills of Oakland, the one he’d grown up in, had most of its windows facing west to enjoy the panorama of San Francisco to Marin spreading out from left to right. The sky was clear, the fog blanket only beginning its creep over San Francisco.
    It was September now; days were getting shorter.
    Practically thirty . How was that possible? He still got carded when he bought beer. How could he be so old?
    He leaned his forehead against the window and peered at the house to the left, telling himself he was just enjoying the way the sun was lighting up the modern windows with platinum streaks.
    Was she home? He flattened his cheek against the glass so get a better look. The house looked quiet, but she seemed like the quiet type.
    Quiet was good.
    Indulging in a memory of the new neighbor waving at him over the bushes in the front yard, Mark closed his eyes and conjured her up in his mind.
    He pushed away from the window. Of all the women to fixate on, he picked one who’s involved with a future in-law of his. His brother was finally getting married, which was great, but his fiancée, Bev, had not-so-great relatives. Like the dude who knocked up his neighbor.
    Groaning, he strode across the room. He had to get out. Just a walk, a run, maybe shoot some hoops in the driveway, anything to remind him of the real world.
    His clothes were in a pile on the floor where he’d dumped them from the dryer, but at least they were clean. Except for the stains. And the jeans were too short because he’d been too cheap to pass up the five-dollar Levi’s on the clearance rack.
    He pulled them on anyway and looked in the mirror. A thirty-two-inch inseam wasn’t what it used to be. With a shrug, he turned away from the mirror and jogged downstairs. Maybe it was time to take some of the money he’d squirreled away to buy some new clothes.
    One of these days.
    He walked past the old upright piano and the dining room table into the kitchen. His mother, Trixie, was using the old avocado-green rotary phone that had hung on the wall since Mark was born.
    “That’s terrible,” his mother said into the receiver, twisting the cord between her fingers. “Which houses were hit?”
    Mark paused in the doorway.
    “Oh, no, I understand that would be confidential,” his mother continued. “So little privacy these days.”
    An alarm bell went off in Mark’s head. “Mom, who’s on the phone?”
    She waved at him, smiling, but then turned and addressed whoever was on the line. “But, you see, I don’t live alone,” she said. “My son is here. Mark, my middle child. He’s better than any alarm system, I’m sure.”
    “Mom,” Mark repeated. “Who are you talking to?”
    Her smile faltered. “Yes, I suppose he will be moving along some day.”
    Mark strode over, reached for the phone.
    “Soon, yes,” she said. “Probably soon.”
    He took the receiver just as a man’s voice was saying, “Ma’am, that’s precisely the type of home these criminals are targeting—women living alone. Especially in such a large house as yours. How many square feet did you say it was?”
    “A lot bigger than the prison cell you’ll be living in if you call here again,” Mark said.
    He heard a grunt before the line went dead.
    With a sigh, he turned to his mother. “You’re on the sucker list, Mom. Don’t let them start in on you. Just hang up.”
    “Really? Again? But he sounded so real.”
    “Real?”
    “I always hang up on the robot people,” she said. “Even if it’s Diane Feinstein.”
    Mark put an arm around her.