“You’re kidding,” I say. “Don’t you have to do this sort of thing all the time? Clear away undergrowth to build a fence?”
“Not like this.” He shakes his head. “If this was my place, I’d forget about it. You might could put the fence closer to the trail. You know”—he points to the edge of the trail near where we stand—“right about here instead of closer to the lake. You decide to do that, you call us.”
“All right,” I say with a sigh. “Thanks for coming out.”
We walk back along the trail to the house. I make small talk with him. Where’s he from? Carlisle. How long has he been in the fencing business? Five years. He asks me questions about the Shadow Ridge houses. Are all the yards as spooky as mine? My yard reminds him of the woods near his childhood home where an old witch was rumored to live. Honestly, I’ve just about had it with people giving me a hard time about my home. I’ve decided to consciously change my feelings about the property, focusing on how much Jackson loved the trees and all the wonderful elements we built into our house design. Daddy said it was “gorgeous” the other night and it is. It’s a breathtaking house and I’m not going to let small-minded people ruin it for me.
The fence guy and I reach the circular clearing and begin crossing it to pick up the trail on the other side.
“My father told me the Klan used to meet right here in the old days,” I say.
“Oh, I think the Klan used to meet just about everywhere back then,” the young man says. “Prob’ly still do. We just don’t hear about it so much.”
I can’t help it: I shudder at the thought of my yard still being a gathering place for the Klan. I want that fence more than ever now.
In my driveway, I thank him for his time and wave as he drives off. When I turn back to the house, I remember that tomorrow is trash day. They missed us last week, the trash guys not yet used to anyone living at the end of Shadow Ridge Lane. I wheel the can to the end of my driveway even though it’s only midafternoon. I don’t want to forget to put it out. Even with the lid closed on the can, the trash reeks after two weeks in the summer sun.
* * *
Rainie is chatty as I help her get dressed for school the following morning.
“I want to play with the carrot-net, Mama,” she says, checking her shirt before she puts it on to make sure she’ll have the label in the back.
“What’s the carrot-net, honey?” I ask, helping her pull the shirt over her head.
“A horn thing,” she says.
“Oh, a clarinet?” I smile. “You’re learning about musical instruments at school?”
“Yes, a girl played that one and I like it.” Her brown eyes, huge, deerlike, sparkle. I want to hug her to pieces and if we had more time, I just might, but we’re running late.
“In a couple of years, I’ll get you clarinet lessons if you still want them.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Yay!” She claps her hands together, and she’s still talking about the clarinet as we eat our oatmeal and I fill my travel cup with coffee for the drive to my office.
In the garage, I buckle her into her car seat, thinking that I should do more to nurture her interest in the arts. I’m still thinking about that as I open the garage doors and begin backing down the driveway toward the street. In my rearview mirror I see that my large brown trash can is on its side and I silently curse the trash collectors for their sloppy job—until I realize that someone has strewn my two weeks of rotting trash from one side of my front lawn to the other.
“Oh no,” I say.
“Oh, no,” Rainie repeats. “Did it ’splode, Mama?”
“I don’t think it exploded,” I say, horrified by the smell that cuts straight through the car windows. “I’m not sure what happened.” It’s pretty clear to me that someone intentionally dumped my trash all over my lawn, but I don’t want to scare her. I’ll let her think it was nature, not man, that caused this revolting mess.
* * *
After dropping Rainie off at school, I call the office to let them know I’ll be late. I have a meeting later this morning, but fortunately no client appointments. Back home again, I park my car in the driveway, get out, and look with dismay at the field of filth in front of me. Someone had to work hard to spread the trash out like this. I set the trash can upright and that’s when I see the typed note taped to the lid: your woods are a source of evil that touches all our lives.
I suddenly feel as though I’m being watched. I look around me. The construction workers are arriving now, the air filling with the sound of van doors sliding open and slamming shut. None of the workers pays any attention to me. I feel torn between crying and screaming. I do neither. Instead, I pull my phone from my purse and call the police.
* * *
I’m making Rainie’s bed upstairs half an hour later when I hear a car door slam in the driveway. I look out the window to see a police car behind my SUV. An officer stands at the edge of my driveway, hands on her hips, taking in the trash heap that is my yard.
I walk out through the garage to avoid crossing the revolting lawn and before I even reach the officer, everything begins to pour out of me. “My husband died in February,” I say. “We designed this house—I’m an architect—we were both architects. We were just in the middle of building it when he died, and people warned me not to move into it. I didn’t even want to move in without my husband. I’m trying to love it, I do love it, but I hate it!” I say those three words out loud for the first time. “I hate it, but we put everything into it. Our hearts. Our savings. Everything! I hate the woods. People keep telling me I should leave.” I thrust the note that had been attached to the trash can toward her and she takes it gingerly. “This weird woman came to my office in Greenville and said she wanted to kill someone and she knew all sorts of things about me. I spoke to the police in Greenville, so there’s a record of it. And now I get this note.” I gesture toward the slip of paper. “And I have to clean the trash off my yard!” My voice shakes. I’m somewhere between fury and tears.
The officer looks up from the note, waiting patiently to be sure I’m finished.
“Have you or your daughter been physically threatened?” she asks.
I try to remember. “It feels like we have been,” I say, “but no. No one has said ‘I’m going to kill you’ to me. Not specifically. But even my father tried to warn us not to live here. He said the Klan used to meet in the woods behind the house.” I point toward the house as though we can see through it to the forest.
The officer is Black and her eyebrows rise at the mention of the Klan. “You’re not aware of anyone meeting back there now, though, are you?” she asks. “Have you seen any sign of people being in the woods or—”
“No.” I take in a long breath. I suddenly feel ridiculous. It was cathartic, spilling all my woes out to a stranger. “I’m sorry I called you,” I say. “I mean, there’s nothing for you to go on here, and there’s really been no crime other than … this.” I gesture to the trash on my lawn. “Just … various people telling me I picked the wrong place to live.” I shake my head.