Author's Note: This story was edited by Tim413413. I thank him for his time and making me a better writer - or at least look like a better writer.
Painting in autumn was a mistake. I now realized that, but it was too late to stop. The wind kept sending dead leaves into the newly-painted fence, giving it a festive look. I had to stop every few minutes to peel them off the drying white paint. The temperature was better than the dead heat of summer. The cooler weather in late October kept the paint from becoming glue in fifteen minutes. I just wish I would have thought about the leaves.
My wife, Carrie, had trained my temperament to withstand the assault from things like the leaves. Years ago I would have thrown up my hands and screamed at God. Today, I just continued painting and peeling. It was tedious, but I still accomplished the job. If Carrie had survived, she would have thought of the leaves before I started painting and talked me into waiting until spring. She was the one with common sense. When she passed, most of my sense went with her.
"Find the solution. Don't double the problem," Carrie would always say. Normally, I would bite back at a person who made such a statement to me. Carrie always followed it with the most delicious kiss. How could a man stay mad with a woman like that? I was putty in her hands and she molded me into a gentleman.
I adjusted my ear plugs and increased the volume as "Stairway to Heaven" began to pipe through the little wires. The song still motivated me after all these years. Today's music just didn't have any heart. There were few tunes that measured up to classic rock. Most just sounded like regurgitated boy or girl band Disney drivel. Whatever happened to good old arena encore songs? My painting speed increased with the tempo of the song. I found myself mouthing the words, reminding myself not to sing out loud. People would pay to not hear me sing.
My wife and I had lived in this dump of a house for the twenty-five years of our marriage. I had stayed, more out of habit than anything else, for three years after her death. It was home. Friends had tried to get me to move into the city or somewhere nicer. I could certainly afford it. It was Carrie who became attached. She always had a strong sentimental link to the place. It was our first big purchase and she loved it as much as she loved me. I loved her and tolerated the house. It was a money pit for such a small home. Still, it was the last piece of her I had. I guess I was a bit sentimental myself.
I think I felt, more than heard, the crash. Zeppelin had hit the crescendo so I questioned my senses as I turned slowly to look at the back of the house. The upper window to the family room was missing half the glass. The break formed jagged teeth surrounding a foot-wide hole in the bottom left corner. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted feet running in the neighbors' yard. I only caught a glimpse of the young legs through the slates in the fence before they disappeared around the far side of the house. My to-do list just got longer.
I pulled out the ear buds and stood up, looking over the four-foot fence. The neighbors' yard was now empty and I saw more leaves blow into my freshly-painted fence. I held back the desire to throw the paint brush and kick the fence. Carrie's tolerance stilled my temper. I took a deep breath and knelt down to finish the fence slat I was working on. I ordered my thoughts and figured I would finish the slat, put up the paint, find something to cover the hole in the house and then speak with the neighbors. I liked order in my brain. It may not be the best order, but the organization made my irritation easier to bear. The fence would have to wait another day.
I hadn't met the neighbors. They had moved in a couple of months ago when I was at work. They were never outside at the same time I was. I had seen two boys and I think I spotted the mother unloading groceries once. Carrie had been the socialite. She would have had their whole history in a matter of hours. Without her, I was lucky to know the neighbors' names after a year. The boys seemed to be in middle school, somewhere around the preteen age. The mother was maybe in her thirties. It was difficult to tell since I had never seen them up close.
I finished the slat and put the lid on the paint. I wrapped the brush in a plastic bag, hoping it would remain wet. The paint was more of a stain and clean up was a pain in the ass. I usually threw out a cheap brush instead of trying to save a good one. As long as I got back to painting in the next few days, the brush would be ready to go. I hated leaving the job undone. I would almost prefer to not start a task rather than leave it unfinished. Alas, the broken window was calling my name. I peeled a few more leaves off the fresh paint and moved the paint supplies to the garage.
I found a few pieces of cardboard and covered them with a garbage bag. Using duct tape and my waterproofed cardboard, I sealed the hole in the window from normal weather. I found a blue baseball in the family room. It had also broken a small photo frame that had been resting on an end table. It was a picture of a smiling Carrie before she had gotten ill. Luckily, only the frame was damaged and the photo was unharmed. It was a small blessing since I had so few photos of Carrie.
Picking up the glass challenged my temper again. I sliced my hand by moving it too quickly. The cut started between the thumb and index finger, leading half an inch toward the center of the palm. One of those injuries you know will take a long time to heal because of its location. I fisted a Kleenex to stem the blood flow as I finished cleaning the glass more carefully with my good hand. At least the cut wasn't too deep. More blood than pain. I ran a vacuum through the room to make sure I found all the glass. I would have to make sure the replacement glass was tempered.
I dislike uncomfortable conversations. I don't avoid them; I just dislike them. They had a way of ruining everyone's day. It would have been a lot easier if the kids had just owned up to the window and saved us all from a crappy conversation. Once I had the bleeding stopped, I headed over to the neighbors with the blue baseball. Their house was built around the same time as mine. Somewhere around the 1970s. It was a small ranch with wood siding that had been painted a few too many times. They had a nice dark blue door to match the blue shutters that framed the windows.
There was tape over the doorbell indicating it was out of service. I knocked and waited. After a few moments, I knocked a bit louder. I was surprised and a little embarrassed when the door swung open in between one of my louder sets of knocks. A woman in black jeans and a black collared shirt stood at the door with an expression somewhere between exasperated and perturbed. She was barefoot and had a dish towel in her left hand. I placed her at the tail end of her thirties with coarse brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her face showed a bit of the wear and tear of a hard life. She had a large mole just below the left side of her chin. Not that she was ugly, she was just looked like the teller you would avoid if you wanted a nice trip to the bank.
"Hi, I'm Todd Wilkerson from next door," I introduced myself smiling. I held out my left hand since the right still wanted to bleed a bit.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Wilkerson?" the woman responded while ignoring my hand. I was a bit taken aback by the curt response. I expected her name or at least a return smile. I got a pure business-only look from her. I dropped my hand to my side.
"I think this may belong to one of your sons," I said, holding up the blue ball. I dropped my smile and mirrored her serious look. This was going to be less than cordial. The woman looked at the ball then back at me.
"It may be. Is there a problem?" she asked. Her face relaxed a little and I could see her shoulders lose some of their rigidness. I relaxed my expression as well.
"It went through my back window. I think it came from your backyard," I answered trying to soften the blow with a calm tone. Carrie and I were never blessed with kids so I didn't know how it felt to have someone complain about them. I was sure I would have taken it personally.
