“It’s your garage, dear. It’s a blight on our neighborhood.” Mrs. Ruby Varnella has thoughts on all aspects of our home. She’s hated everything we’ve done to try to modernize and has pointed issues with the flowers that “crowd” the beds along our new patio.
I step out of my leggings. Maybe this time when she gets going on whatever complaint she’s gotten herself riled up about, I’ll interrupt and plead my apologies later.
“Someone’s gone and spray-painted all over it!” Her words rush out in a flurry. “It’s dreadful. Absolutely terrible.”
“Spray paint? I’m not following.”
“Your garage,” she says, stressing every syllable.
“Someone spray-painted our garage? Are you sure?” Did Clint do some repairs to the siding, and she’s just overreacting?
“I’m standing right here in front of it, dear. You know how Napoleon likes to take his morning constitutional as the sun rises. Now shush, you,” Mrs. Varnella baby-talks to the dog.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Varnella.” I speak over her. “You’re standing in front of my garage, and someone has spray-painted what exactly?”
“Well, I’d rather not say the word...”
Someone spray-painted an actual word on our garage! I take a deep breath. “Do you see anyone? Anyone on the street that shouldn’t be there?”
“No, but I understand your meaning.” Her tone has shifted. “I think we should head home.”
“Take care. I’ll deal with it. Thank you.” I try to pull the phone away when I hear her talk again. I bang my head lightly on the bathroom door.
“Of course, dear. What are good neighbors for?” Her voice lowers. “I can tell you this: the word rhymes withrichand, um—”
“Yes, thank you. I know the word.” I promise to keep her updated and do my best to cover my garage as quickly as possible. I agree, not a good look for the neighborhood. Talking over her, I tell her goodbye a few times before she lets me go.
I make two calls, which go much quicker. Clint will follow up with the police.
After a ninety-second shower, I rake my hair up into a ponytail and sniff at my sweatshirt. My train buddies will need to be okay with a faint stench of old Caesar dressing. For just such fashion emergencies, I grab a Mets cap from my bag and pull the bill low. I cram both computers and all the paperwork into my leather bag and quickly pack up my Tumi.
In twenty minutes, I’m on the next train home.
31
THURSDAY
The cab rolls down our short tree-lined driveway. A couple of large blue tarps cover one and a half bays of our garage. Gutsy move by the hooligans to trespass through our decorative wrought iron gate, which we never close, and another fifty feet to our home, nestled among elms and hemlocks. Perhaps it was the old growth that gave them the cover they needed.
Clint and I decided, when the craze hit, not to pepper our house with surveillance. We don’t even have a Ring doorbell, popular along our street. Maybe the police can see if anyone else caught a strange vehicle last night on video.
I tap my card against the cab’s credit machine and leave a hefty tip in appreciation of the clean, fresh-smelling car. Artificial pine is better than the stench of unwashed bodies and fetid deep-fried food that can perfume my ride in the city.
I walk up and peek under the plastic tarps. In letters as tall as aschoolkid, one word is scrawled in bloodred paint. Is this retaliation for the video Erika posted? My blood boils at the thought of someone saying this about my baby girl.
Or is this about me?
Betsey knows where I live. Not only was she here last weekend, she’s been an invited guest a few times, including last Christmas. I distinctly remember sipping a mulled cider while talking about the neighborhood and our decision not to spy on ourselves with cameras. Not so much from the fear of someone hacking into the feed, like many have concerns about, but just one more bit of technology to manage. Betsey had familiarity, opportunity, but what would be her motive? Not a smart way to compel me to cooperate.
The front door opens, and Clint stands in the warm light from the house. His scruff is more salt than pepper. Probably why he’s almost always clean-shaven these days. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with a stretch that hugs his biceps. I got him that shirt months ago, but this is the first time I’ve seen him wear it.
He’s so handsome, but he’s stopped believing me when I say it.
“Admiring our new paint job?” He walks across the front flagstone pavers toward me.
I wanted to add a basic front porch to our Tudor-style home when we bought it five years ago, but the architect we hired to design the renovation said that would be like mixing metaphors. He suggested this low-slung almost patio nestled within the landscaping. It has become one of my favorite parts of the house. If they had defaced those stones or my mahogany rockers, I’d likely be in tears right now. The garage can be seen from the street, but it is not the heart of our home.
“Have the police been here?” I ask.
