“The paint?” I asked. “Or you plugging your car into my house after I specifically told you not to?”
Her mouth tightened.
“I wasn’t stealing anything.”
“Then why were you doing it after midnight?”
Monica opened her mouth, but someone else answered for her.
“We’re finally saying something.”
“Same reason she borrowed my ladder while I was at work, probably.”
Frank stood across the driveway in plaid pajama pants, arms folded.
Monica spun toward him.
“I gave that back.”
“Three months later.”
Someone laughed again.
The paint was the least of her problems.
Monica looked from Frank to me, suddenly less furious than trapped.
“This is ridiculous. You’re all ganging up on me over nothing.”
“No,” I said. “We’re finally saying something.”
The laughter that broke out was the sweetest sound I’d heard in years.
I thought Monica’s humiliation ended there, dripping pink in my driveway. As it turned out, the paint was the least of her problems.
“I saw the video.”
After everyone finally went home, I stood alone in the driveway looking at the pink streaks on the concrete.
My hands had started shaking.
Not from fear.
From the strange realization that Monica had yelled, threatened, embarrassed me — and the world had not ended because I’d refused to back down.
“Because of the video?”
****
Two weeks later, Mr. Alvarez, Monica’s landlord, knocked on my door. I’d known him for years — he’d been a good friend of my late husband before moving out of state.
“I thought you deserved to hear this from me,” he said. “I saw the video.”
“And?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Her lease is up next month,” he continued. “I won’t be renewing it.”
Paint hadn’t been her only dose of karma.
I blinked. “Because of the video?”
“No. I decided to take a closer look at everything.”
“Something else was wrong?”
“She’s behind on several utility payments. I inspected the house, too. There’s damage she never reported — and a few repairs she made without permission.”
I glanced toward Monica’s house.
She never looked my way.
Apparently, the pink paint hadn’t been her only dose of karma.
A month later, I sat on my porch with a glass of iced tea and watched Monica load the last of her boxes into a moving truck.
She never looked my way.
My gnome sat proudly by the mailbox, back where he belonged.
“Kindness isn’t the same as silence, El.”
I could almost hear my late husband’s voice saying it.
This time, I didn’t mistake keeping quiet for keeping the peace.
