I brushed her hair back. “Sweetheart, you don’t need to worry about the lady. That’s my job.”
“I’m not worried,” Olivia yawned, big and theatrical. “I just had an idea.”
“Olivia, what idea?”
But she’d already rolled toward the wall, pulling the quilt up over her shoulder, and within ten seconds her breathing had gone soft and even.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the back of my daughter’s head, wondering what on earth an eight-year-old could be planning. Kevin croaked with curiosity.
***
Friday’s traffic had been brutal. All I wanted was to peel off my work shoes and pour myself something cold.
I walked up our street, waving to my colleague Denise as her Corolla pulled away from the corner. Harold had walked Olivia home from the bus stop, as he’d been doing all week.
Then I saw the truck.
A concrete mixer sat rumbling in front of my house, its chute swung out over my gravel driveway.
Gray sludge was already sliding down onto the hood of my Chevrolet, spreading across the windshield in a slow, ugly wave!
I stopped in the middle of the road. For a second, I honestly thought I was hallucinating from exhaustion.
Then I saw Valerie.
She stood at the edge of her lawn in a different silky robe, as if she were watching a garden show.
I lunged forward so fast that I almost tripped over my own purse.
“What are you doing?!” I shouted.
Valerie smiled.
“I guess you’ve finally learned your lesson,” she said. “Now you’ll park that junk somewhere else.”
My hands were shaking so hard that I fumbled my phone twice while pulling it out. I was about to call 911 when the screen door of my house creaked open behind me.
Olivia stepped out onto the porch, holding a juice box.
She looked at the concrete truck, at Valerie, then at me. And, I swear on my dad’s memory, she winked!
“Baby, get back inside,” I said.
She walked past me, calm as Sunday morning, and stopped a polite distance from Valerie.
“Ma’am,” Olivia said, turning to our neighbor, “I’m really sorry, but look. I think something is happening to your porch.”
Valerie’s smile flickered. “What are you talking about, child?”
“Up there.” Olivia pointed with her juice box. “The men. The one with the clipboard.”
My neighbor turned toward her own house. I turned too.
Two men were standing on Valerie’s front steps.
Their car was parked in her driveway.
One wore a city shirt and was taping a bright orange notice to her front door. The other was heavyset, wearing a dusty work jacket, and he was on the phone, gesturing furiously back toward the concrete truck in my driveway.
The color drained from my neighbor’s face so fast I thought she’d faint!
“Oh God, no,” Valerie whispered. “Please, not this!”
“What is that?” I asked quietly. “Olivia. What did you do?”
“I got Mr. Harold involved like I planned. I told him,” my daughter said. She took a small sip of her juice. “This morning. She was on her phone in the yard while I was waiting for the bus.”
“You told him what?” I asked.
“That the mean lady was on her phone in her yard. She was talking really loudly. She told the concrete people the car was on her property and it was fine, and to come at four. But it wasn’t her address she gave, Mom. It was ours.”
I stared at her.
“So, when Mr. Harold came to wait with me for the bus after locking up our door,” she said, “I told him. And he said I did the right thing. Then he made a bunch of calls.”
