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I pull around to my carport, already smiling. I know exactly what to do.
A half hour later, I snap my laptop shut in triumph. It took some clever searching through indescribably boring city ordinances, but I’ve found what I need, and I’ll be able to shut down the chaos next door with a single phone call on Monday morning.
Now I can work a crossword in peace. Only, that doesn’t feel celebratory enough for having found the solution to my headache. It’s a night to indulge. This calls for a film. Perhaps even a scripted one instead of a documentary. I enjoy my vegetables, but it’s healthy to treat oneself now and then, and Leigh had mentioned an independent film she’d enjoyed recently. Watching it might give us something to talk about.
It feels positively luxurious to turn on the television and open Netflix. I find the title and cue it up but pause before it plays. I’ll take this one step further and enjoy some snacks while I watch. In the kitchen, I take out a box of cracked pepper crackers and a wedge of brie I’d been saving for when I finished grading midterms.
Racket from next door leaks through the windows as I arrange my mini charcuterie. I can’t make out exactly what’s happening through the reflection on my glass, but it’s clear enough that the neighbor—Paige?—and the child are running around outside in the dark. Paige seemed to pride herself on her parenting, but I don’t think this does her any credit. It’s almost seven o’clock. Surely the girl should be asleep already?
I resolve to ignore them. “You do not get to intrude on my party,” I say. But I don’t have the interest or ability to pitch my voice to penetrate glass like the girl’s does.
I settle on the sofa. I’ll simply turn up the volume if they don’t settle down next door. With a sigh of contentment, I pick up the remote, press “play,” and plunge the house into immediate darkness.
Chapter Ten
Paige
Uhoh.Everylightin our house and Scrooge’s has winked out. House lights. Christmas lights. All of them, inside and out.
He’s going to be so mad. Big mad. The kind of mad that beef and barley soup won’t fix.
“Evie?” I call. “Did you plug in the lights on the side?”
“No,” she calls, but it comes from that side of the house, and it’s not very convincing.
I walk around to find her standing there, a dark shape staring at the ground with her hands behind her back.
I crouch in front of her, the extension cord from our Santa face leading to Henry’s plug, stretched taut about eight inches above the ground all the way across his driveway, waiting to trip her up like the lie she’s telling me. “You want to try that again, honey?”
We’d spent most of the afternoon creating a Santa face out of strings of bulbs—white for his beard, red for his hat—on the side of our house—the side that will stare straight into Henry’s—but I’d need to figure out where to plug them before we could light them.
Evie had pointed to an external socket on Henry’s house. I’d promptly ruled it out and promised to do some magic with extension cords tomorrow.
Now Evie sniffs. “I’m sorry, Mama. I wanted Santa to light up. I didn’t know it would break everything.”
A tear trembles on her eyelashes. I stifle a sigh. There will be time to talk to her tomorrow about why “I didn’t know” isn’t an excuse when an adult asks you not to do something. Right now, she’s probably terrified she’s ruined our house for good.
“I know, baby.” I gather her into a hug just as I hear Henry’s front door slam. I squeeze my eyes shut and draw a deep breath so I can deal with him. “It’s okay. I can fix it.”
“What is going on out here?” he demands, storming over. The effect is ruined by the fact that he’s in socks.
“I’m sorry,” Evie says, the tinge of a wail creeping into her voice.
Better head this off right now. I stand and face him, keeping her hand in mine. “We blew a fuse.”
He crosses his arms, and though I can’t see his face well, I’m sure he’s glaring. Every time I see him, he’s either glaring or looking like he’s about to glare. Or more to the point, every time he sees us.
“This is unacceptable. Noise all day. Rampant commercialism on the lawn. And now you’ve caused a blackout.”
Rampant commercialism? What the . . . ? I could have—and would have—been nice and sincerely apologetic—again—until that phrase came out of his mouth.
“Since when is an unsponsored holiday display commercialism? You act like we’re in late-stage capitalism. It’s just reindeer and Santa. Settle down.” I say the last part to make sure hedoesn’tsettle down. It works. His chest puffs up. It’s broader than I realized.
“You. Caused. A. Blackout.”
“No, dude. I blew a fuse. I can fix it.”
“It was me!” Evie says, the truth bursting out of her. “Don’t yell at my mom. I’m sorry!”
