Cemetery of Angels by Noel Hynd Page B

messed his brain up somewhere along the line with some druggie concoction that he’d cooked up? She couldn’t remember Bill being moody and inconsistent like this when she had first met him. But then again, that was when she was more than overanxious to find a new mate, and was willing to overlook much. Sometimes those years before Bill, that part of her life, seemed so distant as to be another lifetime.
    Of course, a worse thought was upon her, too.
    Was Bill still dabbling in chemicals? Not in the house, of course. He didn’t or wouldn’t do that. But off with Jack McLaughlin, his old druggie pal?
    She hoped that this was just a bit of paranoia that had troubled her since she cringed to even think of it the incident in Fairfield. But she wondered.
    Labor Day weekend came.
    The Moores went off to one of the beaches south of Malibu to spend the day. They had seen a few of their neighbors go by and had managed a few brief words of greeting. There was a young woman with gorgeous black hair who lived in one house and drove a ten-year-old yellow Mustang convertible with the California plate, HOTCHICK. There were several men who donned suits every morning and set out for jobs that looked to be professional and in the straight world. There were several wives who appeared to have careers and an equal number of women who stayed home and managed their children and households.
    But during the day, the neighborhood was quiet. Most residents seemed to be out. A handful of the people in the neighborhood, however, kept irregular hours. The neighborhood looked to be what Bill called “upper middleclass California composite,” meaning young to middle-aged adults bent on successful careers, whatever they were.
    Though they had met the other parents on the street, no one had reached out to befriend them. This unsettled Rebecca more than Bill. But she wasn’t yet ready to admit that it bothered her.
    “It’s okay,” Rebecca said late one evening. “Let’s get the house in order first. Our social life will follow.”
    “I second that thought,” Bill said.
    They sat before their fireplace in the living room. It was still warm in September and the windows were open to allow a breeze.
    “On the other hand, maybe we should have a party,” Rebecca suggested. Bill looked up from a laptop.
    “Try that one again?” he asked.
    “Maybe we should have a party,” she said. “It’s an idea I’ve been playing with.”
    “A party?” he asked. “With people?”
    “Yes. That’s how it usually works. Something informal. Just drinks and hors d’oeuvres. For everyone on the block. We’ll get to know everyone at once.”
    This was one of Bill’s sullen nights. He said nothing. He only looked at her, turning over the idea in his head.
    “It’s just an idea I’ve been playing with,” she repeated. He surprised her.
    “Might be a good idea,” he said. “We’ll get to know everybody at once.”
    Another minute passed.
    “Should we do it?” she asked.
    “Sure.”
    She smiled. She leaned over and kissed Bill on the side of the face. “Great idea you had,” he said.
    New friendships were all over the place, waiting to be made. The kids had made an interesting one, too. Or so they reported. They had an imaginary friend, as children often do.
    Imaginary,
as opposed to the real flesh-and-blood friends that they were making in school.
Imaginary,
as opposed to the many friends they had back in Connecticut.
    He was a man, the kids said, and he came by every couple of nights to make sure they were safe.
    “
What?!
How’s that again?” Rebecca asked the first time she heard of this.
    “He lives in the turret room,” Karen said. Rebecca looked at her children. And unfortunately an image of the horrible man in the parking lot was before her.
    “Oh, he does, does he?” she asked. Both kids smirked. This first came up, Rebecca would remember, about a week after Labor Day. She was in the living room with Patrick and Karen. It was just