“People can arrive at the center,” my wife said. “This is not the center.”
Karen smiled with her mouth only. “You’ll get your car back. Try to remember that tone when you want a variance for those patio lights.”
She left. The garage door stayed up. A man from two houses down slowed his walk when he saw the white sedan under our light, then sped up again when he saw Karen’s back. Nobody asked us if we were all right. That was the first time I noticed the street’s talent for seeing a thing and deciding it was a private matter, even when the private matter was happening in a driveway that touched the sidewalk.
I locked the house. Locking it felt childish and necessary at the same time. I walked to the community center and put my head into the main room. About ten people sat around folding tables with paper agendas. I asked, loudly enough to reach the back, who had authorized a tow from my driveway and a luxury car inside my garage. Karen looked up. She was annoyed that I had interrupted her. The annoyance was genuine. That was the part I still think about. She was not performing calm over a guilty conscience. She was irritated that the owner of the garage had opinions about the garage.
“I did,” she said. “And I am in the middle of something that matters more than your errand.”