About 40 minutes before the hose came out, Denise walked to the low hedge between our properties. I was brushing sauce onto the ribs. "Jack." I looked up. "Hey, "Denise."
"The smoke is coming toward my house." I looked above the smoker. A thin ribbon was moving mostly upward. "I can close the lid." "I already closed my windows."
"Okay." She waited. I waited. "The smell is still getting over here." "That's usually part of barbecue."
She didn't smile. "You need to move it." "It's already 20 feet from the hedge." "Move it farther." There was room, so "I moved it."
Not because Denise had authority over my grill. Because rolling a smoker 10 ft was easier than discussing wind with a woman who once sent three paragraphs about somebody's recycling bin. She watched me reposition it. "You know that's not going to fix the wind." "I know."
"Does she know?" "No." He nodded. "Good talk." For the next half hour, everything was fine.
Kids ate chips. Neighbors dropped money into the donation box. Linda rearranged the serving table because apparently I'd committed a serious tactical error by putting napkins after the sauce. Then the wind shifted. Not much, just enough to send another ribbon of smoke toward Denise's property.
I didn't see her come outside. I heard her. "Jack." I turned. She was holding a dark green garden hose with a spray nozzle.
I remember thinking there was no chance she was actually going to do what it looked like she was about to do. That's the problem with reasonable assumptions. They require reasonable people. "Denise, don't." She pointed the nozzle.
"I already asked you." "And "I moved it." "The smoke is still coming over here because that's wind." "Turn it off." No, her expression changed.
Not dramatically. That was what bothered me. She didn't look furious. She looked certain like she'd given an instruction and the conversation had reached the part where I was supposed to obey. Then she squeezed the nozzle.
Cold water hit me in the chest. Somebody shouted. I raised one hand. "Denise." The stream moved past me straight onto the smoker.
Six racks of ribs disappeared behind steam. Sauce ran through the grate. Ash kicked up inside the barrel. Then she swept the stream across the edge of the serving area. People grabbed plates.
Linda snatched the potato salad with both hands and moved faster than I'd seen her move since Frank tried to buy a motorcycle online. The spray clipped the folding table. Water scattered across the charity sign and the side of the donation box. I walked toward the hedge, not over it, just close enough that neither of us needed to yell. She finally released the nozzle.
Water dripped from my shirt behind me. My smoker sounded like an angry bathtub. "That food was for a fundraiser." "Then find another way to raise money." "Denise, you just sprayed 12 people because you smelled ribs."
"I sprayed your grill." "You missed." A couple people laughed. Her eyes moved toward them. That bothered her more than anything I'd said.