“Ms. Trina FastHorse Goldberg-Oneka?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Blane. Your community seeks to address the harm you’re doing. This is our third attempt at communication—”
“The harm that I’m doing? But I haven’t done anything!” She barely left the house at all these days, other than to go drinking at YD’s bar.
“That’s exactly right. It’s about what you’re not doing. Negligence harms the community, too.” He pointed to her front yard. “This was once a garden. It contributed food to the community. Now it’s overgrown and gone to seed.” He pressed his face against her window. “Your home itself is in desperate need of repair and cleaning.”
“What warnings did I get? This is the first!”
He pointed to the massive pile of mail on the floor of Trina’s hallway. “Our first communication to you about this issue was delivered via Electric Spirit. The second was handed to you by your mail volunteer.” He gestured toward the blue notice in his hand. “Here is a list of all of the harmful actions you have taken, as compiled by your neighbors.” His eyes were small and kind.
Trina crossed her arms and resisted the urge to slam the door in his face.
“These same neighbors,” he said gently, “have offered to come help you care for your home and land, again and again.” He pointed to the blue paper again. “But it’s not too late! Here are some steps you could take to prove your intentions to become a caretaker.”
“I’ve lived in this house for years,” she said, closing her eyes. “I just need a little more time.”
He nodded excitedly. “Yes! And you can show your intent to stay here and take care of this beautiful land by, well, taking care of it. By picking up the debris in the front yard, doing a bit of pruning—or, at the very least, by letting someone help you while you get back on your feet.” The otter purred in her sleep. He bent down to scratch her behind the ear. “I’ve spoken with your neighbors. They’ve told me you’re grieving.” He gave her a pamphlet entitled so, your true love has become a baby . . .
Stupid fucking Seep literature, as subtle as a ton of bricks. She shoved it into her pocket.
“That’s some information about grief processing and soulwork that is available to you at this time, courtesy of The Seep.” He looked into her eyes. “I’d like you to know that you are not alone.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what I am—”
“Blane.” He smiled enthusiastically, showing small, even teeth.
“All right, Blane. You know nothing about me, okay? Or what I’m going through.”
He huffed in frustration, which pleased her. She wanted to crack his benevolent exterior. Why was her life his business, anyway?
“Look. You’re still clearly very connected to systems of the past.” He gestured to her hoodie and jeans as if they were a political statement. Trina snorted. “But you have to get this into your head—there is no such thing as property anymore. This place isn’t yours to let rot. It’s an asset for the community. It was built by the energies of many different life-forms, including the trees that gave their lives for its construction, the animals that gave up their homes so yours could be built here. So if you can’t take care of it, your intent to stay will lessen and dissolve.”
“And then what?” Trina challenged.
He looked as if he didn’t want to say the words, but he pushed on. “Then, after many more fine people like me visit you and try to get you to change your ways, a community forum will be called. And the community will decide if you are allowed to stay in this house or not. And if they decide you cannot respect this house, which they probably will, it will be given to someone else.”
“Someone like you, I suppose.” She looked at him sharply.
He met her gaze. “Sure. Or someone like you, Trina, before your wife changed forms. Of course, my lady and I would love a place like this. This garden must have been spectacular! Not to mention, it’s meant for two people, maybe even three. Look, nothing is static. Someone lived in this place before you, and someone will live in it after you. So unpack that capitalist mind-set.”
Trina felt tears pricking her eyes. “Don’t fucking call me a capitalist,” she said, keeping her tone flat. “And get off my porch.”
“It’s not your porch, Trina. And that’s my point.”
Trina fumed, her fists clenching and opening, clenching and opening. Blane held up his hands in surrender. “I’ll leave. For now.” He pressed a palm to the blue paper, affixing it to her door. Now everyone in the neighborhood would know her shame, know just how bad things had become.
“I hope you work things out for you, I really do.” Blane picked up the handle of his little red wagon. The otter was awake now, and cleaning her paws. Blane’s eyes were still warm. He paused, then said, “If you’d like, I’d be happy to stay for a little and help get you started on some of the bigger jobs—”
Trina couldn’t bear a single further remark, especially one made in kindness. She slammed the door in his face.
6.
Trina stood with her back against her front door and trembled. The volunteers would be coming in droves now, a relentless stream of whole-grain casseroles, tea, and sympathy. On Saturdays, entire families might show up to help, parents and children in their little work clothes, happy and cheerful and together and not broken. Trina peered out her window. Already, there was a woman out walking with a dog (off leash, of course, because everyone knew that animals were not pets but willing companions). She saw the woman squint at the flashing blue paper, then take a few steps closer. The woman picked up a large branch that had fallen from a tree in her yard and hauled it to the side. Oh, no she didn’t, thought Trina. Don’t you dare! She wanted to scream at the woman, but couldn’t reconcile the idea of herself literally yelling Get off my lawn! at a helpful stranger. Had she really become this curmudgeonly stereotype?
Trina threw on her leather jacket and boots. She grabbed the medicine bag she kept by the front door and felt her pockets for that last package of gum. Then she leaned against the wall and groaned. She used to be cool! Hip and sexy, maybe even a little bit dangerous, back when she and Horizon had toured the country, breaking hearts and getting into trouble. She looked at Deeba’s old gardening shirt lying in a heap on the floor, surrounded by the detritus of their life together. She remembered Deeba in that shirt, dusty with potting soil, bringing Trina a cherry tomato warmed by the sun. Long evenings together on the back porch, watching the light change. The dinner parties they threw for friends, back before everything seemed to irritate her. Had Trina driven Deeba away? If she had been better, kinder, softer, perhaps Deeba would have stayed, and they would have been happy. Her eyes glazed over, hot with tears. She needed to cry but she couldn’t, wouldn’t. She couldn’t stay here anymore. This place was not her home. She was drowning in filth and memories. Trina ran to the back of the house and located the never-fired gun. It had been living in the top drawer of a forgotten cabinet along with ticket stubs, rubber bands, broken vibrators, and other things Trina didn’t know how to throw away. She put the gun in her bag, then ran out the front door; away from the blue sign, away from the woman and her dog, away from her messy yard, away from her problems, for they might swallow her whole if she stayed even a minute longer.