I walk out through the garage to avoid crossing the revolting lawn and before I even reach the officer, everything begins to pour out of me. “My husband died in February,” I say. “We designed this house—I’m an architect—we were both architects. We were just in the middle of building it when he died, and people warned me not to move into it. I didn’t even want to move in without my husband. I’m trying to love it, I do love it, but I hate it!” I say those three words out loud for the first time. “I hate it, but we put everything into it. Our hearts. Our savings. Everything! I hate the woods. People keep telling me I should leave.” I thrust the note that had been attached to the trash can toward her and she takes it gingerly. “This weird woman came to my office in Greenville and said she wanted to kill someone and she knew all sorts of things about me. I spoke to the police in Greenville, so there’s a record of it. And now I get this note.” I gesture toward the slip of paper. “And I have to clean the trash off my yard!” My voice shakes. I’m somewhere between fury and tears.
The officer looks up from the note, waiting patiently to be sure I’m finished.
“Have you or your daughter been physically threatened?” she asks.
I try to remember. “It feels like we have been,” I say, “but no. No one has said ‘I’m going to kill you’ to me. Not specifically. But even my father tried to warn us not to live here. He said the Klan used to meet in the woods behind the house.” I point toward the house as though we can see through it to the forest.
The officer is Black and her eyebrows rise at the mention of the Klan. “You’re not aware of anyone meeting back there now, though, are you?” she asks. “Have you seen any sign of people being in the woods or—”
“No.” I take in a long breath. I suddenly feel ridiculous. It was cathartic, spilling all my woes out to a stranger. “I’m sorry I called you,” I say. “I mean, there’s nothing for you to go on here, and there’s really been no crime other than … this.” I gesture to the trash on my lawn. “Just … various people telling me I picked the wrong place to live.” I shake my head.
“Do you own a gun?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t want a gun.”
“How about a dog? Maybe time to get one. A big one.”
I shake my head again. I’d love to have a dog, but how would I fit one into my life right now?
The woman surveys my yard again. “Let me help you clean up the mess,” she says.
“Oh no!” I say. “I’m sure you have a lot more important—”
“If I get a call, I’ll have to leave,” she admits. “Until then, I have gloves. Do you have a pair for yourself? And a rake?”
We each take a trash bag and work our way through the yard, raking up paper towels and wrappers and bits of food already crawling with ants. I keep choking back tears over her kindness. It’s been a while since I’ve felt that from anyone: genuine kindness. By the time we have every scrap of trash back in the can, though, I’m smiling. We pull off our gloves and toss them in the can. Shut the lid.
“I seriously can’t thank you enough…” I say, reaching out to shake her hand. I see the name plate on her shirt: S. JOHNS. “… Officer Johns.”
“Sam,” she says.
“What?”
“My name’s Samantha Johns.” Putting her hands on her hips again, she looks over the lawn, clean now, though ragged from our work. The stench of garbage is still in the air. “This was probably just kids messin’ around,” she says. “Maybe you built your house where they used to play ball.” She reaches in her pocket and pulls out her card. “But you call me if anything else happens,” she says. She looks past me toward the house. “It’s one of the coolest houses I’ve ever seen,” she says. “Try to enjoy it.”
* * *
That night, I find a printout of a newspaper article in one of the boxes in Jackson’s office. It’s a poor-quality photograph of several children, bundled up in heavy coats, standing in strange positions on what appears to be white sand. Beneath the photograph, this caption: Children enjoy pretending to skate on Little Heaven Lake on their way to Lingman Elementary School. The date of the paper is January 23, 1956. I remember Ellie telling me that when she was young, a path ran next to the lake, leading to an elementary school. I look harder at the photograph. I suppose what I think is sand is actually ice, and the children are trying to keep their balance.