“You should’ve left my car alone.”
Richard pointed at me. “This isn’t over.”
Then he turned and stormed across the street.
I knew Richard. I knew his pride, his temper, and how badly he needed the last word.
After what I’d sent him, there was no chance he’d simply go to bed and forget about me.
So when darkness fell, I didn’t go to bed either.
I pressed the first switch.
***
By ten that night, every light in my house was off.
I sat beside the living-room window with my phone in my hand, watching Richard’s house across the street. Earlier, I’d moved my Honda to the edge of my driveway, just far enough from the fresh concrete to be safe.
And just close enough to my front lawn to be impossible for my neighbor to miss. If he wanted the last word, I’d given him the perfect place to write it.
At 10:43, Richard’s porch light went out.
I leaned forward.
“What the heck?!”
A minute later, his front door opened. There you are.
Richard stepped outside and looked up and down the street before crossing toward my house. Even in the dark, I could make out a small paint can swinging beside his leg.
My heart started pounding.
Richard stopped beside my Honda and glanced at my house.
Dark windows. No movement. Exactly what he wanted to see.
He crouched and reached for the lid.
I pressed the first switch.
“Go ahead.”
My porch lights exploded on.
Richard spun around. “What the heck?!”
I pressed the second. The sprinklers shot to life.
“Jesus!”
Water hit him square in the chest. Richard stumbled backward, dropping the paint can onto the grass.
I stepped onto the porch. “Sree strikes, Richard.”
“You crazy— Turn this off!”
“Why? It’ll wash off.”
“You think this is funny?!”
“You invited them here?”
“I sink it’s funnier than ruining my car.”
His eyes went straight to my mouth. For years, that would’ve been enough to make me stop talking.
I didn’t.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Laugh.”
“You set me up!”
“You threatened my car. I believed you.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“Don’t lie to me!”
Richard took a step toward me.
Then a man’s voice came from behind the dark side of my porch. “I wouldn’t do that, Richard.”
“You finally got what you wanted?”
Richard stopped dead.
Our neighbor, Tom, stepped into the light.
Carol followed him, holding her coffee.
Then Denise appeared behind them.
Richard looked at all three. “What the hell is this?”
I finally switched off the sprinklers. “You got away with the eggs because nobody saw you. I wasn’t giving you that chance again.”
“You invited them here?”
There it was.
“I asked them to witness whatever you chose to do.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
Carol pointed at the paint can. “Then why are you carrying paint across the street at almost eleven at night?”
Richard’s face burned red. “This has nothing to do with any of you.”
“It does now,” Tom said.
Richard turned on me. “You happy? You finally got what you wanted? You made me look like a fool!”
“You did sat all by yourself.”
“You’ve been doing this for twenty years!”
“What you did to my wife!”
I went still. “Doing what?”
“Pretending you don’t know what you did to my wife! Sue and I were fine until you started filling her head with garbage!”
My pulse hammered. There it was. Twenty years. Finally out loud.
“You really believe that?”
“She started spending more time with you. Then one day she told me she couldn’t do it anymore!”
The word came out wrong. Sen.
“And you decided that was my fault? You weren’t there for her!”
His face twisted. “You think I didn’t love her?”
“I think you loved what you were going to become more!”
“Shut up!”
“No, Richard! I shut up when she left you. I shut up when she died. I shut up every time you looked at me like I’d destroyed your life. I let you hate me because I knew you were grieving.”
Richard’s were too. “You took her side. I was her husband.”
“What is it?”
“Sen you should’ve listened to her!”
The word came out wrong. Sen.
Richard’s eyes dropped instinctively to my mouth. I saw it. So did he.
Usually, that was where I’d blush. Correct myself. Make the joke for him.
Not tonight.
“Go on,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’ve been laughing at the way I talk since before Susan died. Do it now.”
He looked away.
I unfolded the paper.
That tiny movement did something to me. For the first time, I realized I wasn’t embarrassed.
He was.
Then his anger came back. “And now this package. What was that supposed to be? Another reminder that you knew my wife better than I did?”
“No.”
“Then what?!”
I pulled the folded paper from my pocket.
Carol looked at me. “What is it?”
“Linda, don’t,” Richard snapped.
“This is what was in the package.”
“Why not?”
“Because Sue isn’t here to explain herself!”
That stopped me. For a second, grief punched through all the anger.
“No,” I said. “She isn’t.” My throat tightened. “And that’s exactly why I kept sis quiet for twenty years.”
Richard stared at me.
I unfolded the paper. “You spent years telling everyone what everything costs. Your house. Your landscaping. That eight-thousand-dollar fountain.”
“What does that have to do with Sue?”
“That was nearly everything I had.”
“Everything.” I held up the check. “This is what was in the package. A copy of a check I wrote Susan twenty years ago.”
Richard shook his head. “Sue gave me that money. For my business. So what?”
I looked at him. “Ask where she got it.”
“She would’ve told me!”
“She was going to.”
Richard stared at the paper. “Five thousand…”
“That was nearly everything I had,” I said.
“Why didn’t you tell me after she died?”
Richard shook his head again. “No. Sue gave me that money. She said she’d figured something out.”
“She did. Me. She paid me back whenever she could. Fifty dollars. A hundred. Whatever she could hide from the household budget without making you worry.”
“Hide from me?”
“She was protecting your pride! She believed in you! Even when she was furious with you, she believed in you. That’s why I gave her the money.”
“She still owed me money when she died.”
His voice dropped.
“Why didn’t you tell me after she died?”
“Because she died!” My voice broke completely. “Because my best friend was gone, and you had just buried your wife! Did you really want me knocking on your door with an unpaid balance? I couldn’t do sat to her.”
Again, the lisp. Again, I let it stay.
“She still owed me money when she died,” I continued. “I never asked you for it. Not once.”
Richard rubbed a hand over his wet face. “So now you want it.”
“You needed someone to blame.”
“No! I don’t want your money!”
“Then why send the damn check?”
“Because you stood there this morning and laughed at my cheap car!” My voice cracked again. “You looked at me like I was beneath you because my car is fourteen years old. You bragged about an eight-thousand-dollar fountain to the woman whose savings helped you start the business that paid for it!”
Richard went completely still.
Carol whispered, “Oh, Richard.”
“That you took her from me.”
He looked at her. Then at Tom. Then across the street. The fountain was still glowing. Water spilled perfectly from one stone tier to the next. Richard stared at it for a long moment.
“I didn’t know,” he finally said. “Sue never told me.”
“I know.”
His eyes came back to mine. “And you let me believe…”
“That you built your business yourself? Yes.”
“No.” His voice broke. “That you took her from me.”
My anger softened, but it didn’t disappear. “I couldn’t fix that for you, Richard. You needed someone to blame.”
Richard’s eyes filled, and he looked away.
“For the eggs.”
“I know.”
His voice was barely audible. “I loved her.”
“I know sat too.”
His eyes flicked to my mouth one last time. But there was no smile. No mockery.
Just twenty years of exhaustion.
I didn’t correct the word. For once, I didn’t need to.
I picked up the cleaning receipt from my porch table. “I don’t want the rest of Susan’s debt. But you owe me $186.40.”
Inside was $186.40.
He looked at it. Then at me. “For the eggs.”
“For the eggs.”
He took it.
“And Richard?”
“What?”
“Stay away from my Honda.”
Richard and I never became friends.
***
The next morning, an envelope appeared under my door.
Inside was $186.40. No apology.
Maybe neither of us had the right words for twenty years in an envelope.
Richard and I never became friends. But he never touched my Honda again.
“Still sree tiers?”
***
Three days later, when my driveway was ready, I moved it back. Richard was outside beside his fountain.
He glanced at the Honda, then at me. “Morning, Linda.”
“Morning.” I took two steps, then turned around. “Richard?”
“Yeah?”
I nodded toward the fountain. “Still sree tiers?”
For a second, he just looked at me.
Then he gave the smallest smile. “Still three.”
I smiled back. For most of my life, I’d made the joke first so nobody else could hurt me with it.
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