A loaded silence stretches between us. And with each passing second, growing powerlessness, resentment, and dismay press down on my lungs.
“What was the verdict?” I repeat.
I see Bailey and Butterscotch and grass…
“They decided it didn’t matter if you’re innocent. They said the last thing Maple Ridge wants is someone who was incarcerated with dangerous offenders. You’ll be no better than the…real murderers.” Sorrow colors the tone of Zara’s final words. I barely hear them due to the pounding in my head.
I see…
An ant climbs from a short blade of grass onto a cobblestone.
I see the future I’ve been working toward squished like a stepped-on ant.
I hear…I hear a commotion out front. I hear the angry yells telling me I’m not welcome.
“What’s that noise?”
“The villagers with their pitchforks,” I reply dryly, a quiver to my voice. “I’m about to find out how Dracula felt when the villagers wanted to get rid of him.”They succeeded in killing him. “I guess I need to do a better job at keeping my head than he did.”
Zara snorts a humorless laugh. “Have you called the cops?”
I lower myself onto the cobblestones, all my hopes and dreams sinking with me. “I can’t. What if they believe I was guilty of my husband’s death?” What if they don’t give a damn about the vandalism? Or about my safety?
Robyn asked me at my session over a week ago what makes me feel safe. I told her Troy.
But that only works if he’s here. He’s not due back until tonight.
“Phone Noah,” Zara says. “He’ll know what to do.”
“I can’t. He and Avery left this morning for San Francisco.” They’ll be gone for five days.
“You can still call him.”
“He’s driving, and I won’t dump this on him while they’re away on their romantic getaway.” After what he did to help me renovate my house, I refuse to interrupt their much-earned vacation.
“I’ll be over as soon as I’m done with my shift here. I’ll call Simone in the meanwhile so you’re not alone.” Zara ends the call before I can respond.
I push to my feet, feeling no better than I did prior to her call. I take the dogs inside and feed them. “Maybe Simone can walk you two if she comes over,” I tell them as they gobble their food.
I leave the kitchen while they’re eating and track down the white paint I’ve been using on the floor molding. It’s better than leaving the words on my door, even if the paint doesn’t match the new door color.
I grab the can and a paintbrush and fill a bucket with hot soapy water. I locate an old scrub brush under the sink and step onto the front stoop, leaving the safety of my home.
I shut the door to keep the dogs from getting out.
The crowd hasn’t dissipated in the short time since I woke up. Just the opposite. It’s grown to over a dozen people. A few of them are holding signs proclaiming,Convicts Not Welcome!andGo Back Where You Belong!andMake Our Streets Safe Again!
“Protect our children! Protect our children!” the crowd chants, their voices carrying loud and clear.
“Move away, Savannah, or we’ll make your life miserable!” one woman shouts.
Ignoring them as best as I can, I scrub, scrub, scrub at the paint. I scrub until my hands cramp. Scrub until I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to straighten my fingers again. Not once does the chanting stop.
Tears wet my face, but I refuse to let anyone see I’m crying. Refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing what their mean words do to me.
Nothing ever changes when it comes to the mean words. First it was my late husband who used them, who crushed my self-esteem, my self-worth. Then the inmates and the guards. And now this. It’s just one endless circle of oppression, and I don’t know how to get off.
I dry the door with a wad of paper towels. They come away pink, leaving the red paint no less vibrant than before.
