The Execution

No one breathes. Our eyes dart nervously about the innocuously painted cinderblock room, borrowed for the evening like a casserole dish for a pot luck. But we know there’s powder in here, we taste hints of it in the air. We hold our breath.

We don’t post flags. We don’t wear themed garments of war. We don’t line up behind our respective champions. We keep our sweaty palms stuffed in our pockets, out of reach of our neighbors; we refuse to harmonize. We reserve our smiles and nod instead for greeting to each other, just in case. We aren’t sure if this is the one or two finger wave sort of neighborhood. We haven’t established teams.

Jasper sneaks in by way of the back door, eyes watching his own dusty work boots as if figuring out just how they walk, shoulders hunched, hands jammed into the pockets of his worn blue jeans. He always seems to be sneaking. He's tucked way back in at the end of the road doing lord knows what, but everyone sees him every time he leaves. If I’m outside, I wave, but he's always fiddling with the radio or talking on the phone, or doing something that occupies his eyes so they can't meet mine. I don't think he'd leave you stranded on the side of the road though, if he came across you there, so I decide I'd like him on my team. I amble over, as accidental as I can make it look, deciding small talk is probably best, "Hey Jasper." I say without smiling, a smile right now would be too threatening, just enough spark to set this place ablaze, "you watch the game last night?" He nods with a grunt. I don't push it.

Eugene arrives to my rescue through the front door, the only one smiling, although it's brittle like feigned innocence. Still, I cling to it like a habit. I try a joke, "I'm surprised you didn't bring the beer."

"Beer?" he laughs, "Naw, this calls for Scotch.,,,for after." I relax a little. I don't want to assume, but I can't help but feel a little relief. Eugene's the kind of guy who'll give that to you, but there's something brewing just below the surface. I notice it in the slight twitch of his eye, the way his jaw clenches, gripping the edge of his smile like a vice squeezing PVC pipe just past its natural roundness. I don't want it to break. I try to tame my desperation, act casual, back off a bit. I am hovering like a carpenter bee, guarding my home turf. Except I'm not sure Eugene is home turf. We've never discussed it. We linger in familiar jovial fields. We shy away controversy. We’re predictable: drinks every Thursday evening on the porch if the weather is nice, inside if it’s not. War stories, fishing tales, jokes about Henry, safe stuff; we ask nothing of each other. It’s an easy bridge to rest on: solid, well built, with high comfortable barrier railings that obscure the roiling water below.

Henry is a good sport; knows we joke about him sometimes. He jokes about himself sometimes. It’s all in good fun, usually. He comes through the door, eyes already reaching for Eugene like the safety net before a tumbling aerialist. He’s late on purpose. Henry is never late. On the contrary, he’s always early, which is ironic since he sleeps late every morning. He’s not the kind of retired guy, like Eugene, who’s early to bed, early to rise. No, Henry can sleep! I try never to call him before ten in the morning. But he, too, must have known the air would be thick here, and wanted Eugene to arrive before him so he wouldn’t have to mill around looking lost. He was never lost before Carmen died. None of us expected it. She was younger than Henry, and spicier; we all thought she was just an established fact, that nothing could touch her, not even death.  It wasn’t anything we discussed, it just swirled in the air around her. Henry clung to her like dust motes on a lamp shade. No one blamed him for that. Carmen always knew what to say or do in every situation. We all clung to her. She was ours. She made us believe that.

After Carmen died, the neighborhood fell apart in solidarity with Henry. We didn’t know it at the time, but she was the glue that held us all together, the sun around which we orbited. At the time though, she was Henry’s wife, part of the package That’s how it was back in Henry’s day—women moving the world through the marionette of their husbands. I’m younger, though, I should have known better. I should have paid more attention.

Sally arrives with Carl and Betty in tow. My anger flares like racehorse nostrils behind the start gate; this is Sally’s fault. She knew how hard I worked on that compromise. Hours on the telephone, calling everyone one by one, making small talk on my way to learning what was and was not too important for each to give up. I tried to take in all the sides. I crafted that damn proposal, catering to everyone and no one all at once. We had a unanimous vote! She had agreed! Each side must give up a little for all of us to gain. This is how shit works!

But then, afterwards, when we were all tucked back into the cocoons of our houses, buffered by the tidy edges of our landscaping, we get that email.

I would like to change my vote to no and I would like the minutes to reflect as much

Her words reach out from the screen and slap me hard across the cheek. The heat rises to the affront. My throat constricts, my jaw sets, my muscles tense, ready for fight or-as is usually the case with me—flight. We all know that it’s Sally’s husband, Robert, behind this outrage. He’s the opposite of Carmen. He can’t stand compromise. He burns bridges.

So now, here we are, the whole neighborhood involved, and Sally brought witnesses. She knew this was an execution. I want to slap her. I should have rallied troupes. I should have listened to Carmen. Instead, I just let the air whoosh out of me. Tendered my resignation. Limped here.

The chairs have been arranged in a circle-a vestige of a more jovial gathering. Ever indentured to hope, we do not rearrange them. I’m not quite so sanguine. I smell blood. I hope it’s Sally’s.

She sits and we follow suit like cattle lining up for slaughter. I keep Eugene and Henry close and position us not too far from Jasper. Perhaps my closeness can influence them, like rice yielding to water that gets a bit too close. Sally calls the meeting to order. “First item of business: acceptable lawn height.”

I suck in a breath, it’s go time. I stand, “As I have resigned my position with the HOA, I stand before you as a general neighborhood resident and propose the following compromise which has been crafted from the opinions of everyone present.” I’ve lit the spark. Let her burn.