“Thank you,” Mom says, and begins edging back toward the fence.
Just then the door to the Salazar house flies open and Jules, the felonious brother, bursts onto the lawn with Stephanie’s son, Chris, and a little girl named Lulu who’s staying with them for some reason. Jules hasn’t changed since I saw him on our doorstep two years ago: He’s pale and overweight, his button-down shirt untucked. He looks normal except for his eyes, which are frantic.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks Stephanie. “Why is she on our property?”
“We’re discussing the lilacs,” Stephanie says.
“She’s standing on our lawn. There is no reason for her to be doing that.”
“Noreen,” Dad says, “why don’t you—”
“Get off our property,” Jules orders Mom. “Now.”
Stephanie wheels around on her brother. “Don’t speak to her that way, Jules! She’s our neighbor. Jesus.”
“It isn’t your property,” Mom corrects Jules. “It’s your sister and her husband’s property.”
“Actually, we’re divorced,” Stephanie says. “So it is my property.”
“I’m her brother,” Jules says. “Get off.”
“Jules, stop it!”
“There is no sibling resemblance between you,” Mom says.
“She’s crazy,” Jules says to Stephanie. “You’re letting a crazy person stand on our lawn. Why?”
Dad and Stephanie approach Mom from opposite sides of the fence. “Noreen, please come back over,” Dad says, and I hear in his voice the anxiety he gets when he thinks laws are about to be broken.
“I apologize for my brother’s rudeness,” Stephanie says.
“He’s rude, but he’s right,” Dad says.
“A sane person!” Jules cries. “Thank you!”
“You’re hopeless,” Mom tells Dad.
“Noreen, is there something you need over here?” Stephanie asks, and I realize that she is handling Mom, and what makes her so good at handling Mom is having to handle her brother on a daily basis. “Because if not, I think Jules would be more comfortable if you—”
“GET. OFF. THIS. PROPERTY!” Jules hollers at the top of his lungs. The sound ricochets between our two houses.
“I will not be screamed at,” Mom says fiercely.
“Let her stand there,” Stephanie tells Jules. “Who cares?”
“You’ve lost your mind, Steph. Why do you cut her so much slack?”
“Jesus Christ, Jules, we’re talking about a fucking fence,” Stephanie says, raising her voice for the first time. “The Middle East is imploding, you’ve got refugees trying to raise their kids under plastic tarps with no running water—I mean, there are conflicts over space in the world that actually matter, but our suburban split rail is not on the list.”
I listen to Stephanie Salazar and I worship her. Dad worships her. Her son, Chris, worships her, as does Lulu. Stephanie is a publicist for rock stars, but she should be a rock star.
“If more people respected each other’s fences, we wouldn’t have those problems,” Jules sniffs.
“I give up,” Stephanie says, and walks back toward her house. “Chris, Lulu, come on. We’re going in.” And they do. Stephanie doesn’t turn back around. She says she’s going inside, and she goes.
There is a long pause. Dad, Mom, and Jules stand like chess pieces in their respective positions. Finally, Dad says, “I’m going in too, Noreen,” and I dart back into the house ahead of him.