My Neighbor Covered My Car in Concrete for ‘Blocking Her Lake View’ – Then My 8-Year-Old Daughter Wiped the Smile off Her Face
“So,” he said, setting his hat beside him. “Valerie.”
“You heard.”
“Ma’am, half the street heard. She’s not exactly a whisperer.”
I laughed in spite of everything.
“She’s done this before,” Harold continued. “Two families in five years. Both left. She has a way of making people feel like renters in their own homes.”
“Wonderful.”
“She’s not exactly a whisperer.”
“Here’s the thing.” My new neighbor glanced at me sideways. “That balcony of hers? Not permitted. The stone wall along her side yard? Sitting three feet into the public easement land. Those fancy statues by her walkway? Also on the easement. Her contractor doesn’t have a license in this state.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know all that?”
“Because I’ve been keeping a file, ma’am. I was your dad’s friend for 30 years. He asked me once to keep an eye on things over here if anything ever happened to him. I’ve been documenting everything for years.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Mr. Harold…”
“Just Harold’s fine.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He picked up a cookie, examined it, then put it back down.
“Because you’re going to need it. Document everything, Samantha. Every conversation. Every look. Get it time-stamped. Don’t confront her. Don’t yell. Just record it.”
I nodded slowly.
From inside the house, I heard a crayon stop moving.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Harold stood up, and tipped his cap at me. Halfway down the walk, he turned back.
“And keep parking that Chevy right where it is. That’s your driveway.”
I did. What else was I supposed to do? Park it on the road?
That night, I sat on the edge of Olivia’s bed, tucking her quilt under her chin the way she liked.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, baby.”
He turned back.
“I’ve been thinking,” my daughter started.
“That’s dangerous.”
She giggled, then went quiet. Her eyes had that focused look she got when she was working something out.
“I have an idea,” she said.
“About what?”
“About the lady.”
I brushed her hair back. “Sweetheart, you don’t need to worry about the lady. That’s my job.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“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.
“I’m not worried.”
***
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.
Harold had walked Olivia home.
