Chapter 18
Joss
“Well, this isn’t what I wanted to come home to,” Tilly grumbles as she scrapes a razor up one of the windows on the front of my shop. “How long has it been going on for?”
I test the acetone on the siding, regretting the cedar facade I had done last year when I thought the vandals had finally moved on. It was an act of faith in the community, that everyone had accepted or at least forgotten me.
“Beginning of the month, what, three weeks ago? The Jags game?”
Tilly snickers. “That’s how we’re tracking time now?”
I admonish her with a pleading, “Stop! I just remember it because I tried to beg off from the game, but Cora refused. She actually helped me with the mums.”
“No way!”
“She made me pay to get her nails fixed afterward,” I laugh, feeling better. Most of the paint comes off with a little scrubbing, but the shingle looks the same when I take a few steps back, so I count that as another victory. I’m worried about the paint that’s gotten into the grooves, that it might end up still showing the message — BACK OFF, spray painted in red — but if we can get most of it off, I’ll feel better about the day.
“What does that even mean, back off?” Tilly grumbles. “Back off of what?”
I shrug. “Who knows? You sure you should be out here? Not that I don’t appreciate your help just as much as I appreciate Cora’s, but I don’t want to hurt the baby.”
She glances down at that, pats her belly. She isn’t showing yet. With the medical issues she’s had in the past, I’m interested to see when she does. She’s home for a week before she’s got a short gig in California, and then she’ll be back for the month of December, but she’ll be out for over two months starting in January. I worry she’s going to overwork herself, but she doesn’t have much choice. She’s a contractor; no maternity leave.
“Nah, doc said that as long as I’m using a fume hood or working outside, I’m good with most things. And it’s so warm today that I’d rather be outside doing this than inside fussing about it.”
Indian summer. Wilmington always gets a good one. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with the city when I was first brought here from the gulf coast of Alabama. I was worried I was going to hate the cold season — and when I have to leave my property in February, I very much do — but I love the way it gets frosty, scaring me into thinking we’re going to have six months of frigid temps, only to kick back in time for Halloween.
Which is approaching more rapidly than ever now that I’ve started counting by Game Days.
“Gabe took me on a picnic yesterday, down at the square. I don’t know why I don’t visit it more often. It’s a ten-minute walk.”
I glance over at Tilly when I don’t get a response. Her arm’s fallen to her side, and she’s staring at the window in front of her. At the glass, at the graffiti, at the shelves within, at her own reflection? I couldn’t say. But she’s not the type to sit still for any length of time. Cora likes her quiet contemplation. I’m always moving, but it’s typically at the speed of a sloth. My lifestyle works well for that. I will gleefully slow down to help a student see that I’m doing.
Tilly’s a pinball. It’s what makes her so good at her job. Yeah, she’ll sit there and hand stitch a seam for an hour, but she’s doing a million other things at the same time. A precise hand, a loud mouth.
“You okay?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow to the point I’m sure she’s now glaring at her reflection. She anchors her hands at her sides, fluffing herself up to face me, but she’s got her wig in twin flaming-red pigtails high up on the sides of her head and she picked a glittery lipstick for today. Plus, despite the weight she lost last year, she’s maintained her chipmunk cheeks. “Do you think this is happening because of Gabe?”
I shrug helplessly at the sloppy letters. It’s not like it’s a new thought, but it is another to throw in the pile of stuff I can’t talk to him about. “My face is popping back up around town again. Gabe, he tells off anyone who tries to start stuff when he’s with me, but I’m guessing it’s fuel for the fire. And this?” My eyes run along the four-foot-tall letters again, B CK O F now that the two windows are mostly cleaned. “What else could it be referring to? It’s not like I’m suddenly popping up in places for any other reason.”
“Oh no. Again?” someone calls from behind us, out on the street.
They’re not the first passerby to comment in the handful of minutes we’ve been out here, and no, I don’t want to talk about this with rubberneckers who I know happily agreed with hateful words spoken behind my back while offering me performative comfort to my face. Still, I screw on my customer service face to greet and accept their histrionics.
I soften immediately upon seeing Rachel, the Angel who makes Gabe’s favorite cookies. She never quilted a day in her life but said she saw the one I made for the fundraiser and thought it’d be a good hobby now that her kids are more self-reliant. I’ve known her less than two months and feel like she’s a bit of an oversharer and expects everyone else to share equally, but she’s nice. “Oh, hey. Yeah. It happens sometimes. It’s safe here, I promise. It’s always overnight.”
“Don’t you live right there, though?” she asks. “Would you be safer if you stayed somewhere else?”
“No one’s ever broken in or threatened me here before, so I’m not too worried, but I’ll think about going elsewhere if it gets any worse,” I promise her as she heads into the shop.
“Do you think it is someone from before?” Tilly asks. “One of the kids, grown up now, came back to town and saw you were still here or something.”
“Maybe.”
I stare hard at the bottom corner of the B as I scrub it. It’s strange, but it happened so many times before and I’ve caught so many in the act — or at least seen them running away, in hoodies or masks so I couldn’t see their faces but could see their body shapes well enough — that I get the impression this is a woman. The toilet paper and mailboxes, the smashed windows, those were always boys. Slow, thought-out acts, the things that took the most time and were the most irritating to fix were always girls. A girl would pull out every single mum. And these letters are meticulous, someone that was thoughtful about the space they were filling and painted them a height they could be consistent at. A girl who has experience painting giant letters, like on a sign.
Like on those signs the cheerleaders hold up.
“The way you say maybe makes me think you’ve got some other idea in your brain,” Tilly observes as she sets the scraper down, replaces it with a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips, and plops down on the step.
I sit down next to her and steal one of her chips. I don’t even like salt and vinegar chips, and the look Tilly gives me tells me she’s fully aware of this and I’ve lost my mind. I just want the salt. I’m a stress eater. It’s fine. “I have a bad idea in my brain. One of the players on the Jugs is local, Evan—”
“Allore? I do pay attention to things, you know. Even if I don’t get to go to all the games for free.”
“If you were in town when they were, you’d be the one going with me! Cora even bought a Briggs jersey for you.”
Not that I think she’s giving up that jersey now, even if she refuses to talk about what happened that night.
Tilly pushes me with her shoulder. “Just messing with you. I’m going to all the December games. But what about Evan? You think it’s him?”
I shake my head. “And I really don’t think it’s his wife, either, but . . . she’s been a problem. She’s . . . I don’t know who she is, but it sounded like one of her friends might have been a patient here. She was really upset when Gabe brought me to the gala, and then at the first game, one of the other wives had the Allores’ daughter in the stands a couple rows in front of us, and she made them move. So she really doesn’t like me, and I’m not going to be super mad about that, and it would be nuts for her to be doing this, but . . .”
“But what if she’s been talking shit and it’s driven someone else to do this?”
“It sounds even crazier when you say it.”
“Not really. This is something a crazy person does. Football people can be crazy. Could be one of Allore’s megafans, even.” Tilly shrugs and eats another chip. Halfway through chewing, she frowns, looks in the bag, crinkles her nose, and hands them to me, her face taking on a sickly pallor. “These are gross. Finish them.”
I understand enough to get up and take them to the end of the porch to finish this unexpected treat. I should set them out for Jerry, but I can’t believe how good they are. I’m half ready to dump the whole bag in my mouth.
“You need one of those camera doorbells,” Tilly suggests as a middle-aged woman and her husband exit the store.
The husband is laden down with a giant bag of fabric while she holds a single specialty ruler like it’s her most prized possession. She’s less than polite to Tilly, giving her a huffy “excuse me” and passing by before Tilly has the chance to get out of the way fully.
Tilly makes a face at her back, but Tilly’s never worked customer service. She’s not used to rude women who plow through the world with complete disregard for anyone deemed lower than them. Since Tilly’s in denim overalls, a paint-crusted tee shirt, and chunky work boots, the lady probably thinks I hired her to clean up.
It’s only when they reach their car parked on the street does she turn and notice I’ve been standing here the entire time. “Morning, Joss!” she yells, her voice sweet as tea. “Let Gabe know I’m rooting for him tomorrow!”
“Is that normal?” Tilly asks once they’re both in the car.
“Which part—never mind, yes. Yes, customers constantly forget that they were awful ten seconds ago, yes, everyone in town thinks that knowing me means Gabe cares about them now, and yes, apparently people who don’t actually know enough about the Jugs to know it’s a bye week still feel the need to involve themselves.”
Tilly shakes her head. “Wild.”