I Don't Want to Know
A short story about neighbors
Knock knock knock
Man, I just laid down for a nap.
2:17 on the clock.
Okay, so I laid down 37 minutes ago. But it feels like I just laid down.
Knock knock KNOCK
Fine. I roll off the couch and, after a quick glance down to make sure I still have pants on, I shuffle over to the front door.
Blurry figure behind the frosted glass. Doesn't look like there's a truck behind him, so probably not a delivery guy. Not that they usually knock anyway; they just leave my shit on the stoop to fry in the su—
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
"I'm coming, jeez."
I unlock the deadbolt, but before I can even grasp the handle, the door swings open. It's Allan... something. Neighbor from across the street.
Street, driveway. It's a cul-de-sac at the end of a little housing development. No one drives down here but delivery guys and residents. It's part of why Jess and I moved here—the kids can play in the street.
"Hi, Mark!" Allan smiles like two fishhooks are trying to drag his cheeks back to his house.
His garage door sits open, a big HOA no-no. But Allan is the one who likes to be the HOA enforcer, so who would I complain to?
His front door is open, too.
"Everything okay?"
His smile grows bigger somehow, but doesn't touch his eyes. Instead of crinkling up at the corners, they're as wide as his open garage.
"Fine! Great! Just came over to say hi. Can I come in?"
He comes in, not waiting for a response. The couch is a mess from the nest of blankets I had made, but Allan doesn't seem to notice when he sits down.
I glance at his open front door one more time before shutting my own.
"Do you need something?" I ask.
Allan is all right angles—back straight, knees bent, feet on the floor. Hands grasping his thighs, trying and failing to keep them still as his thumbs drum arhythmically.
His gaze darts around the room like a bird, finally alighting on the TV. "What movie is that?"
"I don't know. I was asleep." Again: "Do you need something?"
His eyes finally lock onto mine. "No."
Is he on something? He doesn't seem drunk; I've never seen him drink anyway. Hard to imagine Allan taking anything that would make him act twitchy like this.
"Do you need something?" he asks politely.
Okay, that's it. I've met the minimum requirements of politeness. He's got to—
He's got blood on his fingernails.
Not a lot, just in the cuticles. Faint, like fingernail polish he tried to wash off. It's not fingernail polish.
Allan has three kids, all girls. Kelsey, Chloe, and Quinn. I know their names because my daughter never shuts up about them. Ava loves playing with them. And they love playing with her, despite being two to six years older. They're good kids.
It's not fingernail polish.
"How are your girls?"
"My w-ww-what? My what?" His blood-stained thumbs drum harder.
"Your daughters. Allan, are they okay?"
"Heh. Ha! HAHAHA!" He didn't laugh, just like he didn't smile. He said HAHAHA like a cartoon character.
"I'm not sure what's going on with you, but you need to leave right--"
"I don't have any daughters."
I grab his wrists and pull him to his feet. I gently explain: "You have three daughters. Chloe, Kelsey, and Quinn. You should go see them now."
As I guide him like a shuffling dementia patient to the door, he says, "They're not my daughters."
I don't want to know. I don't want to know. I don't want to know.
"What are you talking about?"
"Those three girls were never mine."
I'm not the most neighborly neighbor. I don't know much about the personal lives of anyone on my street, other than what time they set their garbage cans out each week, and who leaves their Christmas lights up until goddamn February. Fucking Tim.
So, yeah, I didn't know they were adopted. Sue me.
Still. It's weird that Ava didn't know. And didn't tell me. She's fascinated with family trees, reads Jess’s family scrapbook all the time. Adoption would intrigue and confuse her, and she definitely would've asked me about it.
I don't want to know. I don't want to know.
"Do they know they're adopted?"
"I didn't know I adopted them."
We stop at the threshold of my front door, looking across the street to his open front door. His open garage door, which is an HOA violation that Allan would never let slide.
I don't want to know.
He's cagey and jacked up. Adrenaline high.
I don't want to know.
Blood on his fingers.
I don't
Which he tried to wash off
want to
Who's blood is it?
know know know no no no.
"Allan, where are Chloe, Kelsey, and Quinn?"
A van turns onto the cul-de-sac. A mini-van, not a delivery van. Allan's wife. What's her name? Joan? Jan?
Through the windshield, I can see her reach up and hit the garage door remote.
Jen?
She pulls into her drive, doesn't see us because she's distracted and confused by the closing overhead door. Hits the button again.
"What's she going to find inside, Allan?"
Not sure if he didn't hear me, or if I didn't actually say it out loud. He stares at the door closing behind his wife's car.
Jeannie! That’s her name.
Jeannie walks past the open front door, pauses when the slight breeze ruffles her hair. Then she sees something out of the corner of her eye. On the ground.
I can't see it, but I'm afraid she'll see it every time she closes her eyes for the rest of her life.
Jeannie screams.
"Allan, what did you do to your kids?"
"I told you, they're not my kids. They're hers."