Neighborhood Watch by Cammie McGovern Read Free Book Online Page A

apparently have been following my case from the beginning. They tell me they saw the problem with my nightgown right away and they never liked the DA’s explanation for the sandwich. It’s disorienting to have people know so much about me and nothing really. When we finally exhaust the topic of my trial, there is nothing left to say.
    Marianne steers me from one group to another, people who all smile and ask if it feels good to be out. “Oh, yes,” I say, wishing it were possible to tell the truth: It’s a funny mix of feelings. The only new people I like arrive toward the end, a gay couple living in Geoffrey’s old house who seem to appreciate the oddity of the situation. They look about ten years younger than I am and tease each other like new lovers.
    “Bill wants the sordid details of your prison life,” Finn says, smiling at his boyfriend.
    “I do not, ” Bill says, blushing. “Oh, all right, sure. I’m curious, but only because I went to a boarding school that always felt like prison and I wondered if that’s true.”
    I smile and wrinkle my nose to suggest that I can recognize a joke. “Probably not,” I say. “Did you have a rule against caffeinated coffee?” He shakes his head. “There you go, then. Prison was probably a little worse.”
    Finn tells me he’s a fact checker and researcher for magazines, the sort of job reference librarians wish they had when they get tired of dealing with the crazy public all day. When I tell Finn this, he says, “I actually wanted to be a librarian. I’m one of those people who overromanticize that job.”
    “People do,” I say.
    Before they leave, Finn surprises me with a question no one else has asked. “Is there anything you’ll miss about prison?” Every article I’ve read about myself assumes this has been a decade-long nightmare, that all of this time has been stolen from what should have been my rightful life on this block alongside these neighbors. I’ve never admitted the more complicated truth: that my stolen years came earlier and my real life, in many ways, began only recently. I know this much: Disguises are a kind of a prison, as is the pretense of being something you’re not. In prison I found a life that was full and rich with people who depended on me, real friendships, real lives I made a difference in. Here that was less true. So yes is the answer, though I don’t say all this. “The mashed potatoes,” I say, and everyone laughs.
    Before he leaves, Finn tells me he works at home during the day and I’m welcome to stop over anytime I’d like. He leans closer so he’s not overheard. “You know, if being here starts to feel a little weird.”
    “Thank you,” I say, wondering if he can tell it’s already feeling a little weird.
    After everyone leaves, Marianne’s nervous energy seems only to intensify. I sit on the sofa watching her straighten two piles of magazines. “I don’t know why I invited Jean,” she says. “She’s never been a very sensitive person and she certainly proved that today.” Was Jean the woman who asked if prison had made me an angrier person? I don’t remember.
    “I liked Bill and Finn,” I tell her.
    “Did you?” She looks up hopefully. “Yes, they’re very sweet.”
    I can see that her pale cheeks are flush, her forehead damp, evidence of the effort this day has been for her. Roland never appeared at the party, which I assume means they’re separated and he’s no longer around. By the time I left, Roland spent the bulk of his days and nights in the basement, where he kept a workshop filled with design plans for solar-powered water heaters and fuel cells that never seemed to work as well as they should. At least according to Marianne, who rolled her eyes about his work and pointed to the sky. “Solar’s always going to have problems. Like how it’s not always sunny.”
    We also knew—for all of her attempts to dismiss his work—that it wasn’t insignificant. Roland worked for an