“Greetings,” she called as she stepped onto the flagstone. At least the Whitmans had chosen natural stone and not poured concrete. The stone wasn’t a great choice in terms of the environmental effects of excessive hardscape coverage, and Valerie suspected the builder had gotten a variance for the pool and patio and possibly the house, too, or how could he get away with covering so much of the land? But flagstone did have slightly better permeability than concrete and looked much more natural.
The real problem was the risk to the nearby trees. Large ones, like the old oak in Valerie’s backyard, had shallow root structures that spread laterally and might extend hundreds of feet from the trunk. Valerie, who taught classes on recreational forest management (among other subjects), knew this better than any of us. She’d been watching that oak for signs of stress since the day the Whitmans’ lot was cleared.
That tree meant a great deal to her. She couldn’t look at it without seeing baby Xavier in the bright red canvas swing they’d hung from one of the lower branches; little Xavier, age four, on the wooden “big boy” swing that came next, moving his legs back and forth in his first attempts to pump; ten-year-old Zay and his uncle Kyle building a tree house, in which Zay and his best friends, Dashawn and Joseph, would spend untold hours in the years ahead with their comic books and video games and great quantities of snacks. Both the tree house and swing were still there. Xavier and his friends still sometimes used them, as if they were as reluctant to break these tethers to childhood as Valerie was to see them broken.
Julia Whitman was the first to return Valerie’s greeting. She stood up from where she’d been sitting in a cushioned teak chair on the covered porch. “Hi, join us. I’m Julia. Let me pour you both some lemonade.”
“Hi. Valerie Alston-Holt.” She directed her words at Julia but went straight for Brad Whitman, her hand extended. She knew from experience that it was necessary to set the tone right away. “You must be Brad.”
“Brad Whitman, Whitman HVAC. Good to meet you. Thanks for coming by.”
Then Valerie shook Julia’s hand and accepted a filled glass before taking the seat nearest Brad’s. She said, “We’ve been waiting forever for this house to be finished.”
“Us, too,” said Julia, as bright in attitude as the orange block print on her shorts.
“Eight months of noise and commotion,” said Valerie, not really meaning to go there but also kind of wanting to. “The air compressors and nail guns and saws, the drywall guys blasting their music all day long … Honestly, every day off I’ve had since September was spoiled by the noise.”
“Oh,” Julia said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Done now, though,” said Brad. “All’s well that ends well.”
Valerie said, “Until one goes up next door or across the street from you. Then you’ll see for yourselves. You met my son, Xavier?”
“Brad did. Hi,” said Julia. “Pink lemonade?”
Xavier sat down in a chair next to his mother’s. “No, I’m good, thanks.”
“That’s Lily in the pool,” Julia said, “and that’s Juniper.” She pointed to her older daughter, who had set her book aside and was getting up to join the group on the porch.
Hanging on to the pool’s edge, Lily said, “Hi, Mrs. Neighbor. I’m sorry, I forgot to hear your name.”
“She’s Mrs. Alston-Holt,” said Julia. “Did I get that right?”
“Ms. Alston-Holt,” Valerie amended. She did not personally mind if the kids used her first name, but a lot of parents in the South insisted on the formality of titles. If that was how these people were, they should at least get the title right.
“I like the girls’ names,” she added. “Plants are my thing.” Then she said, “Brad, you say you do HVAC work? Maybe you could have a look at my compressor. It’s making a strange noise.”
She glanced at Xavier. He was holding back a laugh. He knew that this was not a sincere request, that there was no troubling noise; Valerie was razzing Brad Whitman in return for his assumption that Xavier was her yard boy.
“Glad to,” Brad said. He set his beer on the table. “Let me just get a shirt and shoes, and—”
“Oh. I didn’t mean this minute.” She had not expected him to be willing to do it himself. “Thanks, though. And, you know, it doesn’t even make the noise all the time. I don’t think I heard it today. Zay, did you hear it?”
“Not today,” Xavier said.
“It can keep. Besides, I wouldn’t think to bother you about it on a Sunday.”
“God’s day,” said Juniper, who’d sat down beside Julia. “Except we don’t go to church anymore.”
“We go sometimes,” Julia said.
Lily said, “God is everywhere, even right here in the pool.”
“Yes indeed, sugar pie,” said her father. He told Valerie, “I confess: I like to golf on Sunday mornings. Better tee times.”
“He likes to golf every day,” Julia said. “But he only goes on Saturdays and Sundays.”
Valerie said, “We’re not regulars at church, either. Especially this time of year. I like Sunday mornings for working in the yard.” This, too, was a little bit of a dig. These people barely had a yard, and what there was of it was professionally landscaped to within an inch of its life. There would be no yard work for them, Valerie was sure, only yard workers.
Brad said, “You’re going to think, ‘What a pushy guy,’ but I’m just one of those people who likes to know things, so here’s my question: Is there a Mr. Alston-Holt?”
Valerie said, “No. It’s just us.”
“Sure,” said Brad. “No problem.”
“I’m a widow,” she clarified.
Both Brad and Julia reacted as new acquaintances always did: the quick look of surprise that preceded Oh, I’m so sorry, and then the lingering curiosity that they were too polite to voice.
Julia said, “Juniper’s about to be a rising senior at the Blakely Academy. Are you in school, Xavier?”
“I’ll graduate from Franklin Magnet in a few weeks.”
“Oh, high school. I thought you might be older. Congratulations!” Julia told him. “I bet that feels good. Will you go to college this fall?”
Valerie answered. “He got a scholarship to the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. I’m very proud of him.”
“Partial scholarship,” Xavier said. “But, yeah. I play guitar.”
Brad said, “Hey, like Jimi Hendrix!”
Xavier shook his head. “Acoustic. Classical. Don’t worry, nobody even knows it’s a thing.”
Juniper turned to him. “Is it true that kids at Franklin bring guns to school for gang fights, and the only reason there hasn’t been a shooting is because security guards confiscate the guns?”
“What?” said Xavier. “No. Where did you hear that?”
Juniper looked at Brad. “Isn’t that what you said?”
Brad glanced at her sharply, Valerie thought. This reaction (if she read him right) suggested that his cheerful man-child exterior might be a veneer. If so, she would not be surprised. In her experience, some men—well-off white men in particular—were so accustomed to their authority and privilege that they perceived it as a right.