Caught Red-Handed (9 page)

When the first payment was due and no five dollar bill appeared, I interrupted the next baseball game. A complicated tale of woe that would have won applause from Scherazade was given to me, along with the information that Ted would be paying for the window, not Ricky.

“We'll have it tomorrow for sure,” Ted said. Ricky just smiled.

My husband and I began arguing. I should have asked for all of the money from Nola on the day it happened, he said. I never should have made the agreement about the five dollars. I was too soft. I should have let him handle it. We were never going to see that forty-five dollars.

More days and more tales of woe, more smiles from Ricky and more arguments between my husband and me. Finally—after my husband refused to be budged from Nola's front doorstep, a payment was made. Twenty of the forty-five.

Sarah and I became better friends. It dawned on me that she had long sought an ally in her own battles with the Nabbits. “Don't let the Nabbits turn us into rabbits,” she would proclaim.

At eleven P.M., the Suburban Avenger sought her secret weapon. The baseball game had just ended, but the lights were still glaring on the field. The Nabbits had driven off to the store to buy more beer. The Avenger took the ice-cold water from the refrigerator and filled the trusty spray bottle. She knew she only had a few moments to act. She took her stance, steadied her weapon. Stream setting again. Squeezed the trigger. Her aim, perfected from practice on a certain Basset hound, was true. As the icy water hit each hot lightbulb, the bulbs went out with a satisfying pop and the Avenger returned to her hideout with time to spare
 . . .

The city changed to automated trash collection in October, and like other households, our four, individual, thirty-gallon trash cans were replaced with one large, wheeled monstrosity provided by the city. The rules were clearly stated. The attached lid on the new container must be closed when placed at the curb. No overloading. If you threw away more than what fit in the trash can, you paid a charge for excess trash.

With two adults using a trash can designed to hold the trash of a family of five, we had no problems staying within the limits. But from the first week of the new program, there was trouble. I put the trash out, and went inside. Later, when I went out to place the recycling bin at the curb, I noticed our trash can, like the Nabbits', was overflowing. When I lifted the lid, I discovered that the Nabbits had placed several bags of their trash into our trash can.

I began to wait until Nola had left for work to put the trash out. Inconvenient, but effective. And it meant that I put the trash out every week, instead of sharing the chore with my husband.

My husband bewildered me by siding with Nola on this issue. He thought my outrage was wholly unjustified. “What if they're dumping something toxic into our trash can? Something illegal?” I asked.

“It's just trash,” he said. Then, for good measure, added, “We'll never see that twenty-five dollars.”

It was after he left for work that morning that my Suburan Avenger fantasies began. As the afternoon wore on, I was shocked at the avenues my own imagination would take in the name of righteous anger. I wanted to plant my fist in Ricky's smiling face.

In the next moment, I was ashamed of myself for thinking such a thing. Was this the result of watching westerns as a kid? Too much violence on TV? Was I reading too many mysteries?

I calmed down. The Suburban Avenger would be forced to stay in the realm of imagination. I needed to find a legal remedy. I went to the library and checked out a well-worn book on suing in small claims court, and began the process. I was finally becoming a true Californian. I was going to sue someone.

I realized that I had only heard the Nabbits' last name. Were there two t's or one? Two b's or one? I tried the phone directory. No Nola Nabbit listing.

The Suburban Avenger whispered in my ear.

I let my husband put the trash out.

After he left for work, but long before the garbage trucks arrived, I checked my trap. Sure enough, the trash can was bulging with added material. I felt nothing but smug satisfaction as I pulled a bag of Nabbit trash from the trash can, took it into my backyard and set it on a table I used for gardening.

My excitement built as I rummaged—wearing old clothes and a pair of rubber gloves—through the Nabbit bag. Few things can tell our secrets as thoroughly as our trash will. The courts had long ago ruled that once a person put their trash out at a curb, the expectation of privacy was gone. Trash was fair game. Even if Nola hadn't dumped the bag in my trash can, it would have been legal to search it. Still, I felt better knowing that she had walked the bag over to my side of the street. She should keep
her
trash out of
my
trash can, or be prepared to suffer the consequences.

It didn't take long to find an envelope addressed to Nola. It was marked “Please open immediately” and came from the electric company. It contained a past due notice. I didn't want to slog through the beer bottles, coffee grounds, and cigarette butts that made up the next layer of the bag. I had what I needed. Feeling bad about not recycling the beer bottles, but knowing their presence in my recycling bin would be a dead giveaway, I hauled the Nabbit trash bag back out to the container at the curb.

I typed up the forms needed to begin the process of suing Nola, and filed them down at the courthouse. She bellowed her outrage in her typical fashion when the papers were served.

In December, our case went to trial. She dressed like a hooker for court and made a wholly inarticulate case for her defense. When the judge failed to accept her theory that Ted should be responsible for the damage, she shook her fist at him and insulted his antecedents, which undoubtedly did not help her in the least.

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.

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.

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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition January 2014

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ISBN 978-1-4767-4895-5