Roy, seated next to her, rises and gives everyone a friendly wave. The attendees, a sampling of people living in North Hills Estates, all welcome Roy enthusiastically.
The neighborhood group is a mix of people, ranging from young homeowners to retirees, day laborers to lawyers. They have one thing in common—they love their neighborhood and want to see it thrive. Everyone present is on the board of trustees, but the meetings are rather informal conversations. The group currently has no president, no secretary, no treasurer. All the board members want to help improve the community, but no one can put in the time commitment needed to take the group to the next level.
“Roy,” says Marjorie Wilson, whose property is just a few houses down from Ann and Roy’s, “tell us a little about what you’ve got in mind for your house.”
“Total renovation,” he says. “There’s a lot of rotten wood inside. Some mold. I’m stripping everything down. The place is going to look like new.”
As Roy talks, Ann can tell that the other members of the association are thrilled with what he has to say. They’ve all shared Ann’s displeasure with the building standing vacant for so long.
“I actually have two houses in the neighborhood,” Roy says. “Both on Lawn Street. I’m living in the other one right now, trying to fix them both up.”
The conversation moves to a discussion about the neighborhood cleanup planned in a few weeks. As the hour-long meeting wraps up, everyone seems satisfied that they’ve accomplished a lot in their discussion.
“I only wish we could do more,” Marjorie comments as an aside.
“Why don’t we?” Roy asks.
Every head turns to Roy, who’d been silent during the earlier conversation.
“What do you have in mind?” asks Ted Fontana, a high school teacher who lives a few blocks away.
Roy leans forward, like someone who’s been waiting for the right time to speak.
“Ann and I were talking,” he says, “and it seems like there’s so much more this association could do. I’m talking about community events that will bring everyone together. Easter egg hunt. Fourth of July barbecue. A trick-or-treat night on Halloween. At Christmastime, we could do an event with Santa. Families can come down, get some hot chocolate, get a picture taken with Santa and his elves.”
“Come down where?” Ted asks. “That’s the problem. We don’t have anywhere to host these kinds of events.”
“What we really need is a park,” Ann says.
“Yes,” Roy says, smacking his hand down on the table. “Why don’t we work on getting a park?”
In the past, when the association discussed the idea, it had always been with a sense of defeat. It’s too bad we don’t have a park. But Roy’s enthusiasm makes the others excited. Even Ann, who has always felt a park is a long shot, finds herself caught up in the zeal.
Ann offers to help find a property owner who might donate a plot of land for a community park. Soon the conversation has taken a new direction, how they need to recruit more members to the association so they can use the dues to build up a savings account.
“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Ted says. “We don’t even have a president. I think that’s the first step.”
Ted’s words have the effect of throwing cold water on a fire. Everyone is brought back down to earth, realizing that talking about all their lofty ambitions isn’t the same as trying to put them into effect.
“I’ll be the president,” Roy says, smiling at the group.
“That would be fantastic,” Marjorie says.
“Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?” Ann asks Roy.
“Absolutely,” he says. “I’ve got the time. I can do it.”
Ann says she’d be happy to work with him to discuss fund-raising.
“I move that we make Roy Kirk president of the neighborhood association,” Marjorie says.
“I second the motion,” Ted says.
“All in favor?”
Everyone in the room raises their hand and says, “Aye!”
It’s unanimous.
CHAPTER 5
A FEW WEEKS LATER, Ann comes home from a morning walk to find Roy hard at work. His front door is hanging open, and the young man wrestles out a broken, water-stained sheet of drywall. He drags it down the porch steps and lays it on a growing stack, flattening the weeds. Before he turns to walk back into the house, Roy spots Ann approaching and offers her a bright smile.
“Making progress,” he says.
His short hair is damp and beads of sweat stand out on his forehead.
Ann smiles at him and tells him to let her know if he needs anything.
“Maybe a glass of water,” he says. “I forgot my water is shut off.”
Ann is happy to do it. She walks into her house and takes a Tupperware cup out of her cupboard. As she’s reaching into her ice tray, she can hear loud noises from next door—the sound of Roy ripping out more drywall. The sound stops for a moment and then, as she’s turning from the freezer to the sink, a thunderous banging vibrates the room. The noise is so clear through the shared wall that it startles Ann, and she almost drops the water cup. As the banging continues, she collects herself and runs the tap until the water turns cold.
What on earth is Roy doing next door?
After filling the cup, she lets herself into Roy’s house. The front hall is filled with tools and equipment: hammers, saws, boxes of nails. The only light comes from the windows. As she steps deeper into the hallway, it becomes harder to see. What light is available is so bright, it makes the shadows even darker. She stubs her toe on a broken piece of two-by-four lying on the floor.
The noise, she realizes, is coming from upstairs. She climbs the dark corridor, her feet crunching dirt and debris. When she makes it to what she assumes is the bedroom—the house’s layout mirrors her own—she finds Roy bathed in sunlight. He swings a sledgehammer against the studs in a wall already stripped of its Sheetrock. The board breaks free of its nails and dangles from the ceiling. He repositions the hammer and takes a wild swing, knocking the two-by-four free. It clatters against the floor, joining a handful of others. Nails jut out of each end of the board, like some kind of medieval weapon.
“Oh, thanks,” Roy says, noticing Ann standing a safe distance from the doorway.
“Are you sure that’s not a load-bearing wall?” Ann says, pointing to the wall he is currently disassembling.
“I’m sure,” he says, taking a drink.
The room is in disarray, with hunks of drywall piled in the corner on top of a mound of pink insulation, which looks wet and spotted with black stains. The state of the house is worse than she realized—much worse than her house when she first moved in. The walls are water-damaged, the boards rotting, the plaster falling off in clumps. The room feels dank, and even though the window is open, there’s a strong smell, like socks that have been left in a gym bag for too long.
“I know,” Roy says, without Ann needing to say anything. “I’ve got my work cut out for me, don’t I?”
Ann offers him a sympathetic smile.
“I know good contractors,” she says. “Want me to give you some numbers?”