by Jan Burke
Not surprised that she lost the case, I was shocked when she actually paid the judgment. I cashed the check and presented the funds to my husband. “Twenty-five dollars, plus my court costs,” I said. He wasn’t nearly as pleased as I thought he’d be.
“Now we have to worry about them going to war with us,” he said.
“‘Don’t let the Nabbits turn us into rabbits!’” I quoted.
For all my bravado at that moment, I began to fear he was right. The next day, Ricky sat on his porch, staring toward our house with a blatantly hostile expression. I was afraid to leave the house, even for a few moments, worried that he might do some sort of damage while I was gone. My husband’s predictions of war came to mind. I crossed the street to Sarah’s house.
After she congratulated me on my victory in court, she agreed to keep an eye on my house while I took care of some errands. As I walked back to my driveway, I heard Ricky laughing mirthlessly behind me.
I finished my errands, then drove to a nearby department store. There I purchased various articles of dark clothing. Together, they created an ensemble which roughly matched the one I had imagined the Suburban Avenger donning for her escapades.
As I pulled back into the driveway, Ricky came back out onto his porch, to resume his stare-athon. I took the bags of clothing from my trunk and felt my confidence surge as I clutched them. I slammed the trunk and turned to return Ricky’s stare. He went back into his house. Triumphant, I hid the clothing in the back of my closet. One never knew when a Suburban Avenger might be needed.
I later learned that Ricky was arrested that same evening, breaking into Sarah’s house. He was going to be tried as an adult, and there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that he would be convicted.
“Those two old prunes, they’ve been out to get my boy from the beginning!” Nola raged to other neighbors. She didn’t find many sympathetic listeners, but her bad-mouthing was so non-stop, it began to grow irritating.
Not nearly as irritating, though, as her practice of turning on the light Ricky had mounted for baseball games. At two or three in the morning, our bedroom would suddenly be flooded with light. When I tried to talk to her about it, she flipped me the bird and slammed her front door in my face.
The next day, on my front lawn, I found a pile of dog droppings so large, it could have been collected from a kennel. The war, it seemed was on. Thinking of her gesture at the door, I decided to buy a bottle of herbicide.
On the next trash day, my husband put the trash out. From my kitchen window, I could see that the lid was propped open. I walked out to the curb, and sure enough, there were extra bags of trash in our container. Consumed by curiosity, and ready to prepare for a little payback, I surreptitiously pulled the two Nabbit bags out and took them to the backyard.
Donning my trash-searching outfit again, I began carefully removing items from one of the bags. Most of the garbage was food waste that could go directly into a new bag. That done, I studied what remained, paying more attention to the contents this time. I began to know Nola Nabbit.
She smoked Winston filtered cigarettes and whatever she rolled up into ZigZag cigarette papers. She drank a variety of budget beers, and had polished off one bottle of cheap white table wine. She had been late on her mortgage payment this month. She drank a lot of coffee and her family ate a lot of fast-food. She had been to see a podiatrist, and apparently hadn’t paid him on time. She had been invited to a wedding. She had received a reminder card for Daisy’s next dental appointment.
She had thrown away a pair of medium black stockings with a run in them, and replaced them with another pair of the same expensive brand. Apparently, a good pair of stockings was important to her. Objectively, I had to admit that Nola had nice legs. She knew it, too.
She had written notes while on the phone, mostly first names, but on one sheet, a misspelled reminder: “Pay $30 by the 10th to Ricky’s psichologist.”
A list caught my eye. Stained with coffee grounds, I could still make out its title: “Ruls of the House.” Beneath that,
1. CHORS MUST BE DUN BEFOR YOU PLAY BALL.
2. NO GOING OUT AT NITE W/OUT TELING ME WERE YOU ARE GOING AND WHO.
3. CREWFEW IS AT TEN.
4. NO LIES.
BRAKING OF RULS WILL BE DELT WITH.
I stared at the list for some time, thinking of all the parents whose children become impossible strangers. Even Nola, poor example that she might be, had struggled with this problem.
My curiosity was stronger than my sympathy. I opened the second bag. It was from Daisy’s room. Here was scratch paper with seventh grade math problems on it, and several false starts on a report on California Indians. There were notes from a Bible study class on Corinthians. (In her neat printing: “Now comes a time to put away childish things . . .”) Hidden in some of the wadded up sheets of notebook paper were foil candy wrappers. I pictured a terrified Daisy sneaking chocolates from a hidden candy-sale canister, finding some solace in forbidden sweetness. At the bottom of the bag was a letter:
Dear Cathy,
Sorry we can’t come to the wedding. There is big trouble with Ricky. Mom took money he had been saving and paid for a window he broke. It made him mad, and you know Ricky. He robbed our neighbor. He’s done it before but this time I think he will be in jail a long time. I know what he did was wrong, but I will miss him so much. He makes me laugh.
I guess I shouldn’t be writing sad news to someone who is getting married.
The letter stopped here, and I imagined her suiting action to word, discarding this letter and writing a happier one. Living in that household, what could she possibly write?
I sat there in the winter sun, staring at the letter for a long time.
I gathered the Nabbits’ trash together and put it in a new bag. I took the bag out to the curb and shoved it down into our container. After that day, my husband always took the trash out. I made room for whatever the Nabbits brought our way.
The Suburban Avenger was laid to rest. I put away childish things.
Also by Jan Burke
Irene Kelly Mysteries
Disturbance
Kidnapped
Bloodlines
Bones
Liar
Hocus
Remember Me, Irene
Dear Irene,
Sweet Dreams, Irene
Goodnight, Irene
Other fiction
The Messenger
Nine
Flight
Eighteen
Pocket Star Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Jan Burke
“The Loveseat,” “Ghost of a Chance,” and “White Trash” were previously published in Eighteen © 2002 by Jan Burke.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Pocket Star Books ebook edition January 2014
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Cover design by Anna Dorfman
Cover photos © Terry Bone/Flickr (trailer)
; Shutterstock (trees)
ISBN 978-1-4767-4895-5
