by Mary Camarillo

Emmylou Harris is singing “Red Dirt Girl” on the satellite radio as Jeannette turns into her tract, driving a little too fast because she really has to pee. Her sports bra is damp and clings to her skin and the waistband of her leggings are soaked from the cardio weight class she just taught at LA Fitness. She slows down as she turns down her street, wondering what there is in the house to make for dinner since Bob will be home from work in a few hours.

One of the neighbors is outside, working in her front yard with her son, digging out the grass. The boy holds a hoe; the woman leans against a shovel. There aren’t many young families in this tract. Bob says the neighborhood is just starting to turn over. “It’ll change,” he predicts. “The old people will die off eventually and sell to young families.” He thinks this will be good for their property values. Jeannette knows this will not be good for her. She prefers old people.

The neighbor woman’s hair is pulled back from her face. Her eyes are puffy, her nose is red, her nostrils raw, her upper lip chapped. Jeannette recognizes something familiar in the defeated curve of the woman’s spine, the way her hands hang limp by her side. The boy, however, is full of energy — dancing around with the hoe, stabbing at dandelions. Jeannette guesses him to be thirteen or fourteen, maybe younger, maybe just small for his age. He needs a haircut. He says something and the woman smiles faintly and then immediately looks sad again.

A few of the neighbors have replaced their lawns with drought tolerant plants but the majority have gardeners who fertilize, mow, and trim weekly, adjust sprinkler heads and then haul the clippings out to the street in green bins. Grass is almost impossible to get rid of permanently. If she knew this woman, she’d tell her she’s wasting her time, she should leave the yard as it is, pull the boy close and never let him go.

Jeannette licks her lips and tastes salt, suddenly furious at the woman for looking so sad when she has a living, breathing boy to spend an afternoon with, in a front yard soaked in sunlight. What she should do is slam on the brakes, pull over to the curb, get out of her car, grab the boy by his arm, cast the hoe aside, march him down the sidewalk, push him into the back seat, and speed off in the opposite direction. This woman has no business with a child. She can’t even keep up with his haircuts.

Jeannette glances in the rearview mirror. She can’t remember where she was going or where she’s coming from. She doesn’t even recognize her own house until she passes it. She takes a quick look at the back seat, worried the boy is sitting there, afraid, lets her eyes dart down the street behind her car, sure the sad woman is chasing them.

The back seat is empty, of course, and the boy and the woman are still working in their yard because Jeannette would never kidnap someone else’s child. She should head to the grocery store and pick up something for dinner, except she still has to pee, and her gym clothes are wet and uncomfortable.

She makes a U-turn and drives back to her house, pulls in the driveway, punches the garage door opener and allows herself a quick glance down the street, certain that the woman is watching her, wondering what exactly is wrong. The woman and the boy don’t look up from their work in their front yard. Emmylou Harris is still singing about red dirt. Jeannette pulls into the garage and closes the door.

Image: Painting by Steve Johnson. Find more of his work on Instagram @artbystevej.