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.
About the Author
National bestseller Jan Burke is the author of a dozen novels and a collection of short stories. Among the awards her work has garnered are Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar® for Best Novel, Malice Domestic’s Agatha Award, Mystery Readers International’s Macavity, and the RT Book Club’s Best Contemporary Mystery. She is the founder of the Crime Lab Project (CrimeLabProject.com) and is a member of the board of the California Forensic Science Institute. She lives in Southern California with her husband and two dogs. Learn more about her at JanBurke.com.
