Every few weeks, Earl would show up. Sometimes early morning. Sometimes late afternoon. Always when I wasn’t expecting it. Always working on the fence.
I called the cops four more times. Each time, Martinez would come out, shake his head, and leave. By the sixth call, he was practically laughing.
“It’s not funny. I don’t understand what he wants.”
“Have you tried talking to him?”
“I tried once. He just said he’s ‘making things right.’ What does that even mean?”
Martinez’s smile faded. “I don’t know. But Earl’s a good man. Whatever his reasons, I don’t think he means you any harm.”
By August, the entire back fence was repaired. Brand new boards. Fresh posts. Even painted white to match the original color. It looked better than when I’d bought the house.
Earl started on the side fence.
I watched him from my window one morning, my coffee growing cold in my hands. My daughter Maya, who was seven, came up beside me.
“Mama, who’s that man?”
“He’s fixing our fence.”
“I know.”
“That’s nice of him.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
September came. The side fence was done. Earl moved to the front.
By now, my neighbors had noticed. Mrs. Patterson from next door stopped me at the mailbox.
“Rebecca, who’s that biker who keeps working on your property?”
Continue reading…
