Good People полностью

Mrs. Garcia looked good naked, which is not something I would’ve guessed looking at her from the kitchen window. I’ve seen her getting in and out of her wagon, the one with the vanity plates, positive, scrawled across in capital letters, like she’s some kind of self-help guru. Never thought much of her body, but she’s got one. I felt myself stiffening up, even thought about going inside to take care of it, even thought of going over there and showing her how she moved me.

I watched her run a towel through her hair and down her body and then walk into the house.

Having nothing to do with our neighbors is not even a topic of discussion in our house. They could be murderers, perverts, Christian Scientists and it wouldn’t make a difference, but still they all seem like good people to my wife and apparently that’s enough. We moved here because my wife has friends here, friends who said this was a good place to settle down, start anew, raise a family. Even still there were no Welcome Wagons when we moved into the neighborhood, no block parties on the Fourth of July, only the fireman and his fire friends two or three times a year, but only on weekends, so it’s always okay.

No one is uncivil. There is a collective indifference and everyone is fine.

From our bedroom window you can look into Carlos’s room. The siding is charred. From the outside, it doesn’t look that bad, doesn’t look like someone could’ve died in there. The paper said they found cigarettes in his room. Carlos was thirteen and maybe he was learning how to smoke. Maybe he fell asleep or forgot to put a cigarette out and this is what happened. There’s no way of knowing and that’s something you can’t ask.

They say the people most likely to help in an emergency are people who are trained to handle emergencies. I’m not sure where I heard that, but it was from someone who sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Maybe it was on television. I believe anything I hear on television. They said when there’s an accident, the ones who pull over are doctors, nurses, cops, etc. Laypeople don’t, not because they can’t be bothered, but because they wouldn’t know what to do. I tell this to my wife when she asks me if there was anything she could have done. She was the one who called 911 and said I don’t know when they asked if anyone was in the house. I told her there was nothing she could have done, that no one could ever think that.

I’m not sure either of us believes it.

The directions are on the kitchen table when I come in from raking. My wife, from the den, tells me I should start getting ready. I’ve thought about not going. We’ve never been inside their house, never shared a meal, never even shook hands. There’ll be lots of people there and no attendance sheet and most people don’t sign the guest book, either. I don’t think the Garcias would even notice is what I tell my wife. Nevertheless, we’re obligated, my wife tells me. We’re neighbors.

Get off 495 at exit 19, turns into Jackson Avenue. Stay on Jackson Avenue for mile, then make right at Guiding Eyes for the Blind Dog Training School. Cemetery on left.

I assume that’s a mistake. I’m sure it’s the Guiding Eyes for the Blind — Dog Training School, or something to that effect. I ask my wife where she got the directions. The cemetery, she says. I don’t point out the mistake to her, but I wonder if it was hers or theirs.

When I go up to the Garcias, I tell them how sorry we are and ask if there is anything we can do. I want my wife to say it, but I figure it’s my job. I feel like an actor playing the sympathetic friend in a movie. I see myself putting a hand on his shoulder. My wife is next to me, hugging Mrs. Garcia, when I do this. The image of Mrs. Garcia naked comes to me when I see my wife console her. There is probably something wrong with me for imagining this. Then I hear Garcia call me by name and it feels wrong. It is the first time I’ve seen his eyes, which are more or less green or hazel. From our driveway it doesn’t look like he’d have green eyes. My wife and I finish with our parts and move to the back of the parlor. We watch for a few minutes as he greets and thanks the people giving condolences, and then we leave.

During the drive home from the cemetery, I picture seeing-eye people, with harnesses strapped to their torsos, leading a herd of blind dogs through the streets. The dogs carry black walking sticks and move them from side to side to avoid what the seeing-eye people miss. But then I think this is stupid and so I stop thinking about it.