Текст книги "The Good Neighbor"

Автор книги: Kimberley A. Bettes

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

I kept my smile, though. I kept the feeling of superiority I had over him. I knew – and would always know – that I’d had his woman. And he knew I’d had his woman. Every time from now on that he had her, would be a time after I’d had her. That was more than enough to make me cocky.

I knew he hated me. I was glad. I hated him. I just wanted to make sure that he knew his place, which was behind me. He also needed to know his broad’s place, which was under me. That thought made my smile broaden.

But he still stood there, staring me down.

A few more seconds passed before I knew what I would have to do to regain the upper hand here. To make him move, I would have to pull out all the stops. My smile had stopped him, and had even kept him, but now I was tired of him. I wanted him gone.

I knew just what to do to make him go away.

I slowly turned my head to the right, toward the broad’s house, and grabbed my dick.

62 Jill

I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the most beautiful, horrific things I’d ever seen. I was scared to tell Owen about it, but I had to tell someone. I wished Andy was home.

I was biting my nails, for crying out loud. I hadn’t done that in years, yet here I was, reduced to nervous childhood habits. I drew my legs up, pressing my knees to my chest, and wrapped my arms around them. I never took my eyes off what sat on the table. How could I?

How could something so beautiful be so hideous?

I knew how. It was the giver of the gift that ruined the value and beauty.

I knew what I had to do. I had to tell Owen everything. He needed to know about the banging on my front door, the dozen roses that awaited me, and the card. The horrible, awful card that accompanied them.

A shudder went through me.

I jumped up and ran through the house, making sure every door and window was securely locked. I didn’t sit again until I held in my hand the largest kitchen knife I owned.

I didn’t sit long. I couldn’t.

I hopped out of the chair and went to the front door. I peeked out the window and looked at Bernie’s house. A clap of thunder boomed loudly, making my already rapid heartbeat quicken. I couldn’t see much through the rain and the dark. Bernie could’ve been sitting on my porch for all I knew.

I hurriedly pushed that thought out of my mind. Thoughts like that would keep me up tonight. Not that there was a chance in hell I’d be sleeping anyway.

I didn’t know how Carla did it. How could she sleep at night with him right next to her? I couldn’t sleep with him across the street from me, and he hadn’t done anything to me.

Yet.

I shuddered again as I remembered the card.

I considered calling the police, but I knew that it would do no good. Bernie hadn’t signed the card, and I had no proof that he’d left the flowers. Even if they wanted to check it for prints, that would take forever. Especially if he wasn’t in their system. By the time they could prove Bernie left the flowers, he would have me raped, killed, buried, and my body would be no more than bones.

The police couldn’t help me now.

I struggled to keep calm. I did everything I could to fight off the stress of the situation. I’d done okay until after dusk. Once night had fallen, I’d been on edge constantly.

I looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was almost five. There were only a couple of hours until daylight.

Surely, I could hold out until then.

63 Hazel

I thought I heard a cry, but over the roar of the thunder and the drumming of the rain, I wasn’t sure. I put down the knitting needles and yarn and pushed myself up from the chair, wincing as the pain shot from my shoulder down my arm. When I was standing and the pain was subsiding, I went to the front door. I heard it better now.

I made a trip to the kitchen and returned with a slab of leftover roast.

I unlocked the door and opened it to a wet and whining Oscar.

“You poor thing,” I cooed to him. “You’re wet and hungry. Well, you came to the right place.” I bent down and offered the roast to the dog, who eagerly accepted it. He walked away with it, lying down in a far corner of the porch.

As I slowly stood up, I noticed movement on the street. I could tell it was a large person, but no more than that. It was dark and raining, but that wasn’t the only reason I couldn’t see any more details. I couldn’t see that far.

I only wore my eyeglasses to drive and read. Since I’d been doing neither of those things, I wasn’t wearing them now.

I don’t suppose it mattered. It was odd, though, that anyone would be out in this weather. Then again, Owen had been worried about Carla. If he stayed over at her place and was on his way home, that would make sense. I’d seen him leaving her place late at night and early in the morning before, so it was possible.

I didn’t forget about what Bernie had done to Carla, though. There were bad things happening on this street. I wouldn’t just assume it was nothing, but I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, either.

I told Oscar he was a good boy and went back inside to finish the baby blanket.

I made sure to lock the door behind me.

64 Carla

Just after I finished washing the breakfast dishes, Owen called to say he wouldn’t be over today. He said he wasn’t feeling well. I told him I’d bring him chicken soup, but he begged me not to worry about it. He didn’t want me to catch what he had, which seemed to be no more than a cold.

I wished him well and we hung up the phone. I hated that he was ill. It would be so odd to not see him. I wondered what in the world I would do with myself all day. Then, I remembered I had a new hobby.

I packed up the needles Hazel had given me and the yarn, made sure the kids had something to do, and we all headed to Hazel’s.

Along the way, I hoped I wasn’t being rude or intrusive. She’d told me to come over any time, but what if that was just something she said to be nice?

Any doubts I had were washed away when she opened the door. Her face lit up.

“Come on in here,” she said, stepping back to allow us to enter.

The kids rushed in ahead of me. They must’ve felt the grandmotherly vibe that I’d felt yesterday. They were already at home here. I was so happy that they would finally have someone they could consider their grandmother.

I took my spot on the couch as Hazel sat in her chair.

“Are you all hungry? I’ve got some food in there. I can make you something.” She waited for me to tell her we were fine before picking up her needles.

We knitted in silence for a while. Then, she talked about growing up, meeting her husband, and raising her kids.

As I listened to her stories, I realized how much I liked her. She’d been through so much in her life. It wasn’t all good. But look at her now. She seemed happy, though she’d grown up poor and had out-lived two husbands and a daughter. She was an amazing person. That was in addition to being so nice.

I was so glad and felt so lucky to know her and to have my kids know her. There weren’t many people like her in the world these days. It was an honor to be in her presence. Everyone should have a Hazel.

65 Andy

I drove home in silence. I preferred the silence to the sound of the radio. When the complete silence became too much, I rolled down the windows not only to feel the breeze rush over me, but to hear the whooshing sound that filled the car. It was a different kind of silence.

My eyes burned from all the crying I’d done. That was over now. I was all cried out.

I felt weak and tired, a result of the combination of the inability to sleep and of being emotionally drained.

There was to be no funeral. My mother was to be cremated. I was coming home to wait for the phone call from my brother telling me he’d received her ashes. Then, Jill and I would go back for the scattering of her ashes and the memorial service. For now, there was nothing else I could do, except go home to my wife.

I sighed. So this is what it felt like to have no living parents. There was undeniable emptiness inside me now, a void. To know that I had no mother or father whom I could call if I needed to...well, that hurt. I still had Jill and my brother and his wife and kids, which helped. It’s not like I was totally without family. Just without parents.

It crossed my mind then how cruel it was to have children. I mean, we all know what’s going to happen. We’re all going to die. And we still choose to bring kids into the world, knowing that one day, we will leave them parentless. It was a cruel, sick thing to do. But necessary, I suppose. We had to keep the human race going, and the only way to do that was to impose this horrible pain on our children.

I wondered then if Jill and I would ever be able to have a child of our own. We’d been trying for so long that I was starting to think it would never happen. I wouldn’t tell Jill that’s how I felt. She remained hopeful about the whole thing. I didn’t want to dash her dreams of being a mother.

Besides, I had dreams of being a father. I wanted a baby just as much as she did, but it was just starting to seem hopeless. I hadn’t given up on the idea yet, but I could feel it coming.

66 Carla

As I knitted with Hazel, I was content. Probably more so than I’d ever been. It was amazing just how comfortable it was to be in her company. Maybe the knitting added to the level of comfort I was experiencing. It was a relaxing hobby. I couldn’t wait to show Owen what I’d learned.

Eventually, the conversation took a turn toward Owen. I told Hazel he had a cold. Hazel, the kind soul that she is, promised to fix that.

She led me into the kitchen where we began preparing some chicken soup. Watching her cook, I believed it wasn’t so much the homemade aspect that would make Owen better, but the amount of love she put into it. After all, it wasn’t soup from a can. This was the real deal. Guaranteed to make someone well.

I enjoyed cooking with her. She was funny, kind, and so sincere. I felt bad now that I’d lived across the street for two weeks without spending time with her. That was two weeks that I’d missed out on. Our relationship, however long it would turn out to be, was now going to be two weeks less.

I pushed that aside and promised myself to not worry about it. The important thing was that I was visiting now, and I was enjoying her company. And I believed she was enjoying mine.

“I could make you some home remedies to take to him, if you like,” she offered.

“This ought to do the trick. If it doesn’t, then we’ll turn to the home remedies.”

She laughed and nodded. I was sure in her day, people didn’t scoff at the home healing like they did now. Back then, your options were limited. You had an ailment, you made the cure.

Hazel’s house soon filled with the aroma of chicken soup. I remained by her side, helping when possible, and memorizing this wonderful chapter in my life.

67 Andy

I turned onto Hewitt Street, feeling as drained as I possibly could. My eyes were still burning, but I think the burn came more from weariness now than from crying.

I was longing to sleep. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and hold Jill and sleep for days. I knew this wasn’t going to happen, though. Jill was at work, and I had no doubt that sleep would fail to find me again, just as it had the last couple of days.

I slowly drove past Carla’s house, looking for anything out of the ordinary and admiring the fence that surely Owen had something to do with. He sure was looking out for her. Jill and I had been waiting for a woman to come along and erase the memories of Holly. It was more than time for Owen to move on. We were so thankful that Carla had moved in.

I pulled into my driveway and parked the car. I didn’t get out yet. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and called Jill’s cell. The call went straight to voice mail, so I left a message telling her how much I loved her. I told her I was finally home, and would no doubt be asleep by the time she came home. I begged her to lay with me when she returned. I ended the call telling her I loved her.

I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and rubbed my face roughly with my hands. I yawned. I opened the door and stepped out of the car. As I did, I glanced across the street and saw Jenson dragging one of those heavy bags to his car.

I closed the door on the car and jogged across the street to where Jenson had just pulled the trash bag off the steps.

“Let me get that for you,” I said. Without protesting, the old man let go of the bag.

“Thank you,” he said. I hadn’t talked to him much, but even I could detect a strange tone in his voice.

As I carried the bag to the trunk of his car, I asked, “Is something wrong?”

He hesitated. After looking up and down both sides of the street, he replied, “I’m not sure. Something just feels wrong about the day. Do you feel it?” he asked, searching my eyes.

I stood there, concentrating hard to see if I could feel what Jenson was feeling. I didn’t feel anything. Maybe it was because my emotional well had run dry. My senses were numb. Maybe it was because there was nothing to feel. Maybe I did feel it, but was so exhausted, it wasn’t registering with me. Either way, after several long seconds, I told him I didn’t feel anything.

“Huh. Maybe it’s just me. I better get these quilts over to Am Vets. Thanks for loading them for me. These bags seem to get heavier and heavier.”

I told him I was happy to help and I headed to Owen’s. I turned at the top of the steps and waved to Jenson as he drove away. I shook my head as I recalled how we’d thought he was capable of murder.

But it wasn’t such a far-fetched notion. There were a lot of motives for murder. Greed was the biggest. Also, there was love. After love was revenge. And who could forget plain old crazy. Sometimes, people just wanted to kill, with or without a reason. There were so many cases of murder involving people from such a wide variety of backgrounds who killed for so many reasons that it was absolutely impossible to gauge who could or couldn’t be apt to snap. One day, you’re delivering pizzas; the next day, you’re delivering pizzas, shooting whoever answers the door. It happens. Every single day.

What I’d learned studying serial killers was that anyone was capable of anything at anytime.

68 Jenson

I drove away, watching the young man at the top of the steps in the rearview mirror. He seemed like such a nice boy. Heck, it was silly to call him a boy, but that’s what he was to me. A boy. Both he and the other guy were both such nice young men.

As I watched him standing there waving to me, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Not just regular wrong, but really wrong. My hackles had been up all morning. It could’ve been the low clouds. It could’ve been the unsettling quiet. Heck, it could’ve been all in my head. But I didn’t think it was.

As I turned left at the end of the street, I thought back to the one other time that I’d had the feeling that something was wrong.

It had started out a beautiful day. There was a cloudless blue sky, a gentle breeze, and the air was thick with the smell of grease and gasoline.

I was a newlywed young man, working at a roadside gas station located smack dab in the middle of nowhere. I was working on the engine of an old car, doing whatever I could to push aside that awful feeling of wrongness. I’d skipped breakfast because it was impossible to put food into the twisted knot that was once my stomach. I was later thankful for missing the meal.

With my head under the hood, I hadn’t seen it coming. I’d counted my blessings many times throughout the years, and missing this occurrence was always on the list.

The feeling of something being wrong swelled up in me until it was all I could do to breathe around it. I remember dropping the tool I’d held in my hand, and at the same time, hearing the screeching of tires and the sound of a woman screaming. Immediately following the scream was a solid and heart-wrenching thud. After the thud, came the sound of glass shattering and metal bending and breaking.

I jerked my head out from under the hood of the car and without even thinking, began running. I ran toward the source of the sound even before my eyes had found it. I took in the situation as my legs carried me toward it.

The van had hit the woman, who was presumably hitchhiking, and veered off the road and flipped. It landed on its roof. The woman was lying on the highway. I went to her first. She was dead. I’d considered trying to save her, but I knew that there would be no way I could help her. Blood poured from her mouth and nose, her legs and arms all lay in the most awkward angles, undoubtedly broken, and her head was gushing dark red blood, creating a sickening pool on the blacktop highway.

No matter what I did, I couldn’t save her. She was gone.

Suddenly aware of the sound of someone crying, I hurried to the van.

I wished I’d kept my head under the hood of the car. Had I done so, I could’ve spent the rest of my life only imagining the horrors I might’ve seen, and even then, I couldn’t have imagined anything anywhere near as horrible as what I actually saw. This was the foundation of all future nightmares for me. I’d seen this scene many nights since, while I slept. It was always the same, and I always woke up crying.

As I approached the wreckage, I saw the small legs of a child poking out from under the van. Knowing it was futile, I struggled to lift the van from the child. Many times I tried, and many times I failed. I couldn’t budge the heavy vehicle. The crying was turning to shrieks, reminding me to move forward. Even if I could remove the van, the child was surely no longer of this world.

I had to get on the ground and crawl through a window to get inside. I crawled through broken glass and rocks and blood to get to the crying woman. She was lying on the roof, looking toward the back of the van. I followed her gaze and saw what held her attention.

A baby lay on the roof, still wrapped in a blanket, drenched in blood. The baby didn’t move.

I turned my attention back to the woman. Her wounds didn’t seem too severe, but upon further inspection, I noticed they were worse than I’d thought.

She didn’t move. Not one muscle moved. I asked her if she could move anything. She said no. I asked her if she could feel anything. She said no. I knew then that something was very wrong, most likely a broken neck. Her breathing was raspy, making it sound as though her lungs were filling with fluid. Most likely blood.

I felt sick. It wasn’t the sight of all the blood. It wasn’t even the smell of the blood. It was the helplessness. There was nothing I could do to help any of these people.

I stayed with her until she took her final, raspy breath. Then, I crawled out of the van. Once free from the wreckage, I found I didn’t have the strength to stand. I just lay there, face down in the dirt, and cried. I cried until my ribs ached and my throat burned.

In the years since, I’d often wondered if I’d paid more attention to that feeling, would I have been able to save any of those people. I knew that there was no way I could’ve done anything any differently. I hadn’t known what the feeling meant. I hadn’t known what was going to happen. But the guilt was there just the same.

I looked at my hands as they clenched the steering wheel. The scars weren’t as prominent as they once were, but they were still there. Reminders of a horrible day so long ago when I’d been plagued by the very same feeling I carried with me today.

My mind raced. I knew the feeling this time. I understood what it meant. But where was the danger? What was the danger? Maybe I should’ve stayed home. However, if the danger was at my house, it was wise to have left. Or if the danger was somewhere along my path, maybe I could be of some use this time.

I didn’t know what to do, so I went on with my day as usual. But I couldn’t shake the feeling. I wasn’t even going to try. I was going to pay more attention than usual to everything around me. I was going to do my best to be ready this time for whatever came my way.

69 Jill

I was ashamed of myself for being such a coward. Sure, I had the guts to sit in the parking lot for over an hour, but I didn’t have the guts to go inside the police station and tell them about the flowers and the threatening card Bernie had left for me.

The truth was I wasn’t sure what I should do. I knew Carla hadn’t wanted any cops involved, but this wasn’t about her. This was about me. If I went to the cops, they would know about Carla. They had to be told in order for them to know the severity of the situation. Besides that, what if what happened to Carla’s mother happened to me? I knew the chances of that happening were slim, but it was still possible. I couldn’t take the chance.

I decided to talk to Andy before doing anything. I drove home. I couldn’t ignore the shaking of my hands on the wheel. I took deep breaths to keep calm, which somewhat managed to work. I had no remedy for the knot in my stomach.

I pulled into the driveway and turned off the car. My heart was racing. Andy was home! I couldn’t wait to talk to him.

I jumped out of the car, leaving the flowers and the note behind, and ran into the house, yelling his name as I went.

He didn’t answer.

I went room to room searching for him, continuing to call out to him, but he still didn’t answer.

He must be at Owen’s.

I grabbed my surprise for him from my purse and bolted out the door, gave Bernie’s house a quick glance as I flew down the steps, and ran next door.

I didn’t knock. I didn’t ring the doorbell. I just went inside. This was unlike me, but I couldn’t help it. I was dying to tell Andy my news. Our news. The news I’d been trying to tell him, but never having the appropriate time.

I wouldn’t be stopped this time. I couldn’t wait any longer. And now I also had to tell him about the threat from Bernie.

He wouldn’t be happy about that.

I hesitated for a moment just outside the front door of Owen’s house. I didn’t want him to be so upset after finding out something so wonderful. Maybe this wasn’t the time to tell him, either. Maybe I should save the news for another time. But damn it, I swore I would tell him the minute he returned – no matter what.

Maybe if I told him about Bernie’s threats first, my news would soften the blow somewhat. I knew that wasn’t going to happen. No matter which order I told him in, it was going to be horrible.

But I decided to tell him anyway. He had to know. I was tired of carrying these things around by myself.

I walked through the house, calling out Andy’s and Owen’s names, alternately, but getting no response from either man.

My frustration was starting to grow.

I was just about to give up and go back home and wait when I heard a voice. It was loud, clearly yelling. I followed the sound, no longer calling out for anyone. The sound led me to a closed door in the hallway. I hesitated outside the door. After a minute or so, I heard the voice again. It was Owen, and he wasn’t yelling now.

With relief, I opened the door and stepped inside.

For a second, just a split second, I was overcome with happiness. There was my Andy. My gorgeous, red-haired Andy.

Then, I was racked with pain. Oh, god, the pain was unbearable. I fell to the floor, unable to speak. I managed to move my mouth, but couldn’t make any words come out.

I could hear the shouts, but I couldn’t understand what they meant. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. The only thing I could think of was the pain, the horrible, unbearable pain bouncing around in my head. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before.

I watched through blurry vision as my world grew dark. Life as I knew it was over. There would be no news now. No chance of telling Andy that we were finally going to have a baby. No chance of telling him that Bernie had marked me as his next victim. No chance of telling my adorable red-haired husband that he meant more to me than anything or anyone ever had or ever would. No chance of telling anyone goodbye.

No chance.

70 Carla

I tucked the knitting needles into the back pocket of my jeans. I used the potholders I’d knitted to carry the bowl of steaming soup Hazel had made for Owen. She made enough to feed a small army, and insisted that I take it all to Owen. She said he wouldn’t feel like cooking, so this would be what he ate for a day or two. I thought it would be more like a week or two with as much as there was.

But I didn’t argue with her or tell her that she’d made too much. Cooking was her thing. It’s what she did. She fed people. She came from a generation where if you had food, everything would be okay. Her generation knew what it was like to be hungry, and was determined not to let anyone else know the feeling.

I loved her generation. Hell, I loved her, even though I hadn’t known her very long.

The kids stayed with Hazel while I headed down to Owen’s house, needles in pocket, soup in hand.

Though I didn’t want to, I looked across the street to Bernie’s house. There was nothing to see. No curtain flutter, no door opening or closing. There was no sign of him at all, which both frightened me and gave me a sense of relief. I was glad I didn’t see him, but I couldn’t help but be a little worried. If he wasn’t in his house, watching out the window as he seemed to have a habit of doing, then where was he?

I pushed thoughts of Bernie out of my mind. I hated thinking about him. If I thought of him for long, my thoughts would turn into memories. Him touching me, biting me...no. I wouldn’t think of him anymore.

As I passed Andy and Jill’s house, I noticed both cars parked in the driveway. I was glad to see that Andy was home.

Instead of going straight to Owen’s house, I found myself ringing the doorbell at Jill and Andy’s. When no one answered the door after a couple of minutes, I wondered why. I considered that they were napping. However, it was mid-morning. Who took a nap before noon?

I decided against ringing the bell a second time. I might try again as I walked back to Hazel’s, but for now I let it go and went to Owen’s.

71 Louis

As soon as I stepped out of the taxi, I wanted to climb back in it and go somewhere else. I hated it here. I don’t know why I hadn’t sold this house and forgotten that Hewitt Street existed. I planned to. Of course, I’d been planning to for years. I suppose I kept putting it off because I was rarely here. It was so easy to forget about it once I was in Paris or Italy or Cairo.

I collected my bags from the trunk, wondering why I ever came back here at all. I wasn’t sure why I even owned a house. I lived out of hotels. I didn’t need a house. I had no one waiting for me. I didn’t own so many things that I needed a house just to store them. I didn’t even feel right in this house any more.

I’d spent my life feeling trapped in kitchens, even though I was doing what I loved. Now I couldn’t stand to feel tied down to one place. Fortunately, I had a successful line of cookware and a series of cookbooks that paid me well enough to finance my travels. I was thankful that all that hard work and all the years of being trapped in hot kitchens had paid off in the end.

I paid the driver and walked my bags to the porch.

The porch was the same as always. So was the house. Everything was always the same here. Maybe that’s why I hated it so much.

There was one thing different this time. There were muddy paw prints on the steps and porch. I visually followed the trail, which stopped at the dog. He lay in a corner on the porch, paws covered in mud. I knew it had rained recently because the street was still wet, and clearly this dog had taken advantage of the wet dirt.

Since he was on my porch, I could only assume he was digging something of mine.

I sighed.

This meant I would have to find out who he belonged to and demand restitution for whatever damage he had inflicted. Of course, that would cause problems with the owner, but it didn’t matter. I was putting this house on the market tomorrow.

72 Carla

I walked to the kitchen and set the large bowl of hot soup on the table. I placed the potholders on top of the bowl. I was going to give them to Owen after I showed them to him. I knew it was silly, and men cared nothing for things of the sort. But it meant something to me to give him the first thing I’d ever made with my own hands. And who couldn’t use potholders?

I called his name a couple of times, but got no response. I glanced in the living room and saw no one, so I headed upstairs, assuming he’d be in bed since he wasn’t feeling well.

Knocking gently on his bedroom door, I opened it. The room was empty. In fact, the bed was made and looked as if no one had slept there at all. It didn’t even appear that he’d slept on top of the blankets. It was untouched.

I checked the bathroom, but he wasn’t there. In fact, I checked all the upstairs rooms but found no one.

I went back downstairs, determined now to find him. I was more than a little puzzled as to why he wasn’t in bed, or seemingly anywhere in the house if he was ill.

When I reached the foot of the stairs, I heard the sound of someone yelling. I couldn’t make out any words or even identify the voice, but I followed the sound anyway, thinking to myself about how curiosity had killed that cat.

Here kitty, kitty.

Yes, curiosity. Here I come.

73 Jenson

I dropped the quilts off as usual. I left quickly thereafter. That was unusual. I liked to sit around and talk with these men. They were good guys and I enjoyed their company as sure as they enjoyed mine. But today was no usual day. I couldn’t sit around and make chit-chat and small talk about this or that. Not while I had this feeling.

When the men asked where I was rushing off to, I lied. I hated lying, but there were times when it was necessary.

How was I supposed to explain this feeling? Heck, I didn’t even understand it myself. There was no way I could have them understand when it perplexed me.

I made up a story and got out of there. The feeling of something being wrong was stronger now. It was nearly overwhelming. My hands shook as I tried to put the key in the ignition. I missed twice, but got it on the third try. I fought the urge to ignore the speed limits and race home. I went the speed limit, but no more. How senseless it would be to get into an accident hurrying home to see what was wrong.