Chapter 7 - THE NEIGHBORHOOD GROUP CHAT
The neighborhood group chat exploded by dinner.
Carl sent one message:
Helen’s trash bag had a burner phone and half the street’s mail in it. Carry on.
I told him that was not helpful.
He replied:
Accurate though.
It was not entirely accurate, but accuracy has never been a requirement for neighborhood chats.
By 8 p.m., the theories had become absurd.
Helen was running a crime ring.
Helen was hiding diamonds in garbage bags.
Helen was a spy.
Helen was poisoning lawns.
Denise asked everyone to stop speculating because this involved real mail and real police.
Carl sent a trash-can emoji.
I muted the chat.
The next morning, Helen appeared at my door.
Not in the green robe.
Fully dressed.
Pearl earrings.
Pressed blouse.
A cardigan draped over her shoulders like she was attending a country-club lunch instead of facing the man whose mail had been found in her abandoned bag.
I opened the door but left the storm door locked.
She noticed.
“Really, David?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth tightened.
“I came to ask that you not make this worse.”
I almost smiled.
“You dumped trash on my driveway for eight months.”
“This has gotten out of proportion.”
“You had my mail.”
“I intended to return it.”
“When?”
She said nothing.
“You filed complaints against me using trash you put there.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You could have been more neighborly.”
That word again.
Neighborly.
To Helen, it meant accepting whatever she did and calling resistance rude.
“Go home.”
She stepped closer.
“You don’t understand what this could do to me.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The first honest thing you’ve said.”
She stared.
“You’re not sorry you did it. You’re scared people know.”
Her face hardened.
“You think you’re better than me because you live quietly in that house?”
“No.”
I looked past her toward her driveway.
“I think my trash goes in my bins.”
That was apparently the final insult.
She left.
That afternoon, I installed a second camera.
Not hidden.
Visible.
Clear.
Then I placed a small sign by the bins:
Private property. No dumping.
Carl walked by, read it, and said:
“Needs more poetry.”
I said:
May you like
“Go home, Carl.”
He laughed all the way down the sidewalk.
