Lurking On The Precipice

2 | Patrol

2 Patrol

After finishing a light breakfast and watering her abundant plants—speaking to each one of them while providing their fundamental nourishment and declaring whether they are "slipping" or "holding" or "soaring"—Violet Hawkins affixes her lavender shawl over her upper arms and takes her throne.

At her living room bay window, with a discerning eye, Violet meticulously surveys the homes and front yards to her right, the homes and front yards to her left, and then the neighborhood park directly in front of her. Completing her initial assessment, she lifts one of her pairs of binoculars from her recliner side table to hone in on areas demanding further appraisal.

"That beast is roaming in his front yard again," Violet grumbles. "Dreadful!"

"Who, dear?" Earl Hawkins asks, without looking away from his tablet device or removing the pipe from the right side of his mouth.

"The peach house," Violet answers. When speaking to her husband and others, she typically identifies neighbors by the colors of their homes rather than by their names.

"Their tabby escaped again?"

"The husband-to-be, supposedly."

"What, dear?"

"From what I hear on the grapevine," Violet says, "I hear they claim to be engaged. But I do not see him or her ever wearing an appropriate ring. I suspect it is all just another sad, sordid ruse to try and dissuade us folks from speculating about their shacking up type of lifestyle."

"It's not like that anymore," Earl says, tapping the rim of his pipe bowl and lifting the window next to his recliner a few inches higher. "The young freely live out of wedlock now."

"Oh, this is just appalling!"

"What, dear?"

"The husband-to-be, supposedly, is checking his mailbox in his boxer drawers. So atrocious!"

"You are sure this time?"

"Perfectly."

"Last time you said this about someone's underclothing you made a big mistake," Earl reminds her.

"Well, that woman's shorts were flesh-colored. And that was egregious enough, actually. That woman moved away from here anyway, so it's just water under the bridge, Earl."

Violet changes binoculars and bends closer to the window.

"He must be stopped," Violet mutters.

"Calm down, dear."

"My parents would be horrified. They would have never tolerated such dereliction of decency in their neighborhood."

"Your parents were born in 1915," Earl says, wiping away tobacco ash from the shank of his pipe with a cleaning cloth.

"May they rest in peace."

Inhabiting the corner house on the eastern crest of a hillock, Violet and Earl are positioned so that their front window permits expansive views of their neighborhood park—Mountain Quail Gardens Park—and the single-story, Tuscan-style homes that surround and face it. Upon selecting the home, Violet became especially determined to do her part to ensure their block did not decay. She insisted to Earl, their adult daughter Asha, and others, that their corner home imposed upon them an additional, special duty.

A duty to monitor, evaluate, and aid their neighbors.

In the past year, Violet has taken her responsibilities further. Her daily, early afternoon walks are now patrols. Sometimes she circles the park twice, if things are particularly troubling or out of order, like the time when the man in the hazelnut house threw his girlfriend's clothing into the street.

"I will say it again today, Earl. This gorgeous block will not decay on my watch."

"It's a new neighborhood. Only five years old," Earl says, lowering his window down a few inches to attain just the right amount of breeze into their home. His recliner is against the far wall of the living room, facing their television and entryway. "The park and the houses were built just five years ago."

"That's what you always say," Violet protests.

"It's true, dear."

"The slide into ruin can happen quickly," Violet reminds him. "We have seen it before, Earl."

"I know. Condoms and needles."

"That's right! Let up our guard and one day our delightful park will be full of condoms and needles."

"But do you have to spy quite so much?" Earl asks.

"Do you have to smoke your pipe quite so much?"

"Carry on, dear. But scoot back, further from the window, so that at least they don't see you perched at the window like an eagle."

"No one can see me," Violet declares. "No one but you knows I'm here. That's why I catch everything."

Earl shuffles to their kitchen and returns to their room with coffee for Violet. He sets her favorite mug on the table beside her and its drawing of a lion's face, made up of a dozen patchwork quilt-like patterns, awaits her attention. Earl spreads her shawl down further over her arms while she keeps looking through her binoculars.

"Thank you," Violet murmurs.

"Of course, dear," Earl says, returning to his recliner and turning his tablet device back on again.

"Anything in the news?" Violet asks.

"Nothing different than yesterday or the day before," he says. "The world is just coming to an end."

"Well, not here it's not," she says. "Not while I can fight for us."

"My savior."

"Our savior is the lord. I told you to stop calling me that."

"Yes, dear," Earl says, grimacing while looking at more of the day's headlines on his favorite news web site.

"Damn them!" Violet exclaims.

Earl is rarely enticed to gaze out the window, but the ferocity of his wife's words cause him to lift his head. Earl is nearsighted and no longer uses his glasses, which he keeps in a drawer in their bedroom. Even the outline of his wife from twenty feet away is hazy, so he remains seated.

"A truck just dumped a ton of rocks into the street," Violet says.

"Where?"

"In front of the peach house. In a mound. Like a pyramid of rocks."

"Barricading the whole road?"

"Practically, yes, the mound is blocking the right hand lane," Violet replies.

"Why? For landscaping?"

"Yes, the trailer behind the truck said the name of a nursery and landscaping company."

Violet switches binoculars again.

"Arizona river rock," she states.

"The smooth, spherical stones in desert colors? They must be revamping their gardens."

"What they need to do is spend some money to help their sapling," Violet says. "They planted it a month ago when they moved in and it's growing crooked. At this rate, it will become a tree leaning flat against the top of their roof."

"Nothing we can do it about it, dear."

"Well, I am writing a letter," Violet says, while lifting her petite notebook and penning her judgements on a page with today's date on the top line.

Earl turns off his tablet, lays down his pipe, and closes the window by his shoulder.

"Let's call our daughter," he says.

"Is it already past 8 o'clock?" Violet asks. (Typically, they speak to Asha, their daughter, on her weekday lunch breaks. She lives in Baltimore, three time zones ahead of them.)

"Just barely," Earl responds. "About five minutes past."

"We'll take your blood pressure first. You know she wants us to tell her your numbers on each call."

Twenty minutes later, Violet and Earl return from their dining room, where they took Earl's blood pressure and made their joint phone call.

"It's vanished," Violet observes, reaching for her binoculars to confirm what her natural eyes are seeing.

"What, dear?"

"The pyramid of rocks. It's gone."

"So quick?"

"There is just a lot of dust and many tiny pebbles left behind," Violet says. "Every rock of substance has disappeared."

"The man you call the 'husband-to-be' must have moved them to his backyard."

"He probably did so in his boxer drawers," Violet quips. "He is quite an unlikable fellow."

Earl relights his pipe, opens his window, and reclines way back to close his eyes and rest.

"Why isn't that man at work today?" Violet inquires. "He should be employed and contributing to society. He can always work on his backyard on the weekends."

"You sound disappointed that he promptly moved the rocks out of the street," Earl suggests.

"Earl, give me a few moments to think in silence. What is he up to over there?"

Violet swings her binoculars to the homes on the left and watches a blond woman scramble down her driveway, get into her sedan, and drive away.

"She's at it again, that's for sure," Violet says, while entering details in her notebook.

"Who?"

"The taupe house."

"What did she do, dear?"

"She left her house to go to the gym," Violet says. "She goes every morning at this time. Like clockwork."

"So what?"

"She is wearing heels and makeup and she is not carrying a gym bag," Violet answers. "What in the world is she up to?"

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