Chapter 3: What the Phone Already Knew
Greg stared at the screen for three full seconds without moving.
Then he turned away from all of us and walked toward the side of the house, phone pressed to his ear.
Carol watched him go.
Her expression had shifted from embarrassed to something harder.
"How long has this been going on?" she asked me.
"The cans?
About six weeks."
"Six weeks." She said it quietly, like she was filing it somewhere.
His daughter — I'd heard Greg call her Melissa — was still standing near the fence.
She had her arms crossed and she was reading the tags again, one by one.
Not laughing.
Not angry.
Just reading.
"I didn't know," she said, without looking up.
"I know you didn't," I said.
She finally looked at me.
She had Carol's eyes.
"I'm sorry.
For whatever that's worth."
"It's worth something."
Greg came back around the corner.
The red in his face had drained.
Whatever color replaced it wasn't better.
"I have to go inside," he said to Carol.
"Who called?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Greg." Her voice dropped.
"Who called?"
He looked at her, then at the fence full of tagged cans, then at the forty-odd guests who were no longer pretending not to watch.
"It was the county," he said.
"Code enforcement."
A few of the guests exchanged glances.
Carol turned to face him fully.
"Why is county code enforcement calling you on a Saturday afternoon?"
"It's nothing.
A complaint.
I'll handle it."
"What complaint?"
He lowered his voice, but the yard had gone quiet enough that it didn't help.
"Someone filed a nuisance report.
Improper disposal of household waste."
Carol's head turned toward me slowly.
I kept my face neutral.
"Linda." Greg's voice had changed.
The bluster was gone.
What was left was something flatter and more dangerous.
"Did you file a report."
"I kept records," I said.
"Dates.
Photographs.
The tags were just for today.
The report was filed two weeks ago."
"You filed a formal complaint against me."
"You threw eighty-six cans into my rose beds."
His jaw tightened.
"You could have just talked to me."
"I did talk to you.
You told me I was too sensitive."
Melissa made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh.
She pressed her hand over her mouth.
Carol looked at her husband the way you look at something you've been meaning to deal with for a long time.
"How much is the fine?" she asked him.
"Carol—"
"How much, Greg?"
He said nothing.
She turned back to me.
"I apologize for my husband.
And for the cans." She paused.
"All eighty-six of them."
Greg's mouth opened.
"Don't," Carol said, without looking at him.
He closed it.
I thought that was the end of it.
I thought I'd walk back to my yard, pour myself a glass of iced tea, and let the afternoon settle.
I thought Greg had been embarrassed enough, that Carol had seen enough, that Melissa's quiet apology was the last word anyone needed to say.
I was wrong.
Because one of the guests — a man I didn't recognize, older, standing near the back of the small crowd — raised his hand slightly, the way you do when you want to say something but aren't sure you should.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Are you the woman at 14 Clearfield?"
I looked at him.
"Yes."
He nodded slowly.
"I'm Ray.
May you like
I live on the other side of Greg." He glanced at Greg, then back at me.
"I think we need to talk."
