I turn and stare at the imposing fence. Why would she want someone living next to her when she’s trying so hard to keep everyone out?
Pam leans toward me. “I can read your mind. Want to know what I think? I think she’s just lonely. Wants someone next door in her final years. This association is filled with families. They just pass along the houses from one generation to the next. There’s no one left after her.” Pam waves for me to come closer, and I lean in even farther. “She has final approval on who rents this house,” Pam whispers, even more softly.
“You’ve met her, then?” I ask. “What’s she like?”
“Not exactly,” Pam says. “We communicate only via email.” She stops. “Sometimes, she’ll just leave a note in the wreath on the door of her fence. It’s written in longhand on a yellow sheet of paper, like they used back in the olden days.” Pam stops again. “She’s turned down a half dozen other applicants. She’ll just write, ‘No!’ on a piece of paper after I’ve shown the listing. I don’t know how she knows since she never leaves her property. She’s like an agoraphobic spy. Personally, I think she’s holding out for a young family. I think it’s pretty black-and-white.”
Her words ring in my ears.
I’ve always thought it must be a blessing to see life in black or white. It must be easier if things are cut-and-dried. If emotion is removed, decisions are clear-cut. Me? I’ve always seen a thousand shades of gray. And that has made for a more difficult existence.
“What brings you to Grand Haven, by the way?” Pam asks. “Did you grow up here? Do you have family here? Are you just wanting to spend a summer with your family near the water?” She stops and looks at me with great concern, before lowering her voice. “I could certainly understand if that were the case.”
“No, no, no,” I stammer. “I grew up in Detroit.”
How do I explain? I think. Why do I have to explain? I’m too tired to explain any more.
A buzzing sound grows in my ears, as if cicadas have nested inside my head. The world tilts—like an old Batman episode—and all its color—the American flag, the brown bungalow, the blue sky, the red tree, Pam’s pink lip gloss—turns black-and-white.
“I got a job offer,” I continue.
“But,” Pam starts, “your husband...”
“Oh,” I stammer again. “He...uh...he’s back from the war.”
“What a blessing!” Pam cries. “I didn’t realize that. I thought he was...”
She stops short.
Dead? I want to ask. He is. Just not literally.
“Goodness,” Pam says in a too chipper tone. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Say what? I want to ask. Say that my husband was returned to me as a shell of his former self? Say that our lives were upended because of a war I never believed in? Say that I’m always worried about my husband because I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing half the time when he’s not drinking or depressed? Say that I’m an awful person for thinking all of this?
A thousand shades of gray.
“Yes, it is a blessing,” I reply. “It’s just hard to talk about.”
“I understand,” Pam says. She reaches out and touches my arm. “You’re doing what you can for your family.”
“Yes,” I say, forcing a smile.
“Are you a teacher?” she asks. “Or a secretary?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m a chemical engineer,” I say.
“Oh!”
“I work for a boat and yacht paint manufacturer here,” I continue. “I’m developing a new marine paint—in interesting colors—to prevent rust and barnacles on ships and docks.”
“That’s amazing,” Pam says. I don’t know if she’s referring to the job or the fact I’m a chemical engineer. She looks at me closely, as if for the first time, and I can see myself reflected in the slippery gloss coating her lips: my brown shaggy hair, little makeup, big black eyeglass frames. I think of the neighbor’s fence: perhaps I’m trying to keep the world at bay, too. “I never think of engineers as being, well, creative.”
I nod. “People always say engineers aren’t creative, but we are. In fact, my work is a sort of art, scientific painting if you will.” I raise my hands and wave them around. “Our world is made of scientific paint mixing. I mean, just look at the air we breathe. It’s made up of lots of other things besides oxygen, which is only about 21 percent of air. About 78 percent of the air we breathe is made up of nitrogen. There are also tiny amounts of other gases like argon, carbon dioxide and methane.” I stop and gesture at the lake. “And what is water made of?”
Pam is staring at me.
“Fascinating,” she says as she reapplies her gloss. “Well, this is a perfect place for your family, then. Grand Haven is a water and boating haven. You know this is the Coast Guard City of the US, right? And we hold the annual Coast Guard Festival, which honors and respects the men and women of the US Coast Guard. Your husband should be right at home here. And you, too.” She smiles. “Now, let me show you the house, okay? And that view!”
Before we can move, Lily races down the stairs and over to the fence separating this yard from the one next door. She clambers atop a large river rock and jumps up to grab a big shepherd’s hook jutting off the side of the wooden fence where it looks like a hanging plant once was located. She tries to climb up the fence like a squirrel, her sneakers raking against the wood.
“Lily!” I yell. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
She jumps down.
“Mom,” she whines.
“She’s a bit of a tomboy,” I say to Pam, who cannot hide her disappointment.
Lily presses her face between the tiny slats in the fence. “Whoa!” she says. “You have to see this!”
I walk over to where Lily is standing and position my right eye against a minuscule opening and squint. Beyond the fence is a garden that resembles one of my own chemical experiments: there are dozens of stakes everywhere with small flags attached, and they’re fluttering in the breeze. Daylily stalks are everywhere, and there is something odd attached to them that I can’t quite figure out.
Little is in bloom this early in the season, but I can only imagine what is to come.
I reposition myself and try to peer farther into the yard, but it’s too narrow and strains my eye. The one thing I can make out right in front of me, however, is a beautiful arbor with a trellis that looks as if it not only might grow roses but might also have been a pathway between these two houses.