If Toad knew about the RACIST SCUM, he’d say he’d told her so. All efforts come to trouble. He’d remind herthat this is why she shouldn’t even try, and maybe this is another reason why she doesn’t want to speak to him again.
When she arrives home, Mrs. Yeung is standing in the front hall with Tom the handyman, both of them squinting up at a stain on the ceiling.
“There’s a leak,” says Mrs. Yeung.
“It’s a really old leak,” says Clemence. The stain was not recent, was likely older than Clemence herself.
“Yes, but Mr. Jankowski thinks we might be able to fix it.”
“Mr. Who?” Tom the handyman. He waves at her, somewhat sheepishly. “Actually fix it?” Who even does that anymore? Wouldn’t it make more sense to wait, and sell the house to someone who would only come and gut it all?
“Have you been camping?” Mrs. Yeung asks.
Clemence says, “What?”
Mrs. Yeung points at her bundle. “Sleeping out. Maybe you built a fort. Idon’t know—why are you walking around carrying your bed like that?”
“Laundry,” says Clemence.
“Where’s your laundry basket?”
“Idon’thavea laundry basket.” She and Toad had laundry baskets. Growing up, her mother had laundry baskets. Laundry baskets weren’t the kind of item that one had to go out of her way to find—they justwere. Clemence clutching her bundle closer—all the heat had gone out of it—says, “Listen, there’s something happening.” Telling Mrs. Yeung about the posters, and the red marker, andthe spam all over Facebook. She pulls the sullied poster she’d saved out of her pocket.
“‘Racist scum’?” Mrs. Yeung is perplexed.
Clemence says, “Ihave no idea what’s going on.”
“It seems like,” begins Tom the handyman, in his slow and steady way, “that somebody out there hates jumble sales. Is what it looks like. If you’re asking me.”
Clemence says, “But what are we going to do?”
“No question. We’ll cancel the jumble sale.” Mrs. Yeung decides.
“Really?”
“No.Who cares? There’s always somebody who’s angry about something with these things. All publicity is good publicity.”
Tom the handyman says (slowly), “You know, I’ve heard people say that.”
Mrs. Yeung says, “Good work, Clemence. You’re doing your job. Getting the word out.”
“But they ripped the posters down.”
Mrs. Yeung shrugs. “So put more up. It’s paper. Grows on trees.” She waves Clemence on. “It’s fine.”
“You’re sure?” asks Clemence. “‘Racist scum’?” She shakes the poster in her hand for emphasis.
“Does that say ‘racist’?” asks Mrs. Yeung. “Isn’t that anF, not anR?”
And Clemence examines the poster again. It is true. On the first poster she’d seen and some of the others, the letter had been considerablyR-like, but the penmanship is hardly impeccable. And the word on the poster she was holding now does seem to start with anF.
“Facist,” she sounds out now, rhyming the word with “racist.” And then something clicks. “Oh.Fascist.” Whoever had defaced the posters is furious, and also can’t spell. “Fascist scum. It says we’re ‘fascist.’ Imean, that’s okay then, right?”
Tom the handyman looks confused. “You really think so?”
“Well, Imean, if that’s what they’re upset about, Icould let them have it. I’m probably more racist than I’m fascist. It seems less personal somehow.”
“Idon’t think you are very fascist at all,” says Mrs. Yeung, consolingly.
