By noon, Dogwood Lane smelled like heaven with a side of cornbread, two folding tables, a red checked cloth, sweet tea in a glass dispenser with lemon wheels, kusen, church friends, Regina's sorority sisters, a domino game aging like wine under the oak tree, and a playlist that had already traveled from gospel to Frankie Beverly, where all black cookouts eventually arrive three doors down behind a spotless bay window. Lindsay Whitley watched the cars park. Lindsay was 38 and genuinely beautiful. The kind of polished catalog beautiful that photographs well on bus bench ads, which was convenient because her face was on four of them. Top selling real estate agent.
Three years running, social chair of the neighborhood association, married to Todd, a mortgage broker with white teeth and a skiboat. She wore Sunrise colored athleisure, drank celery juice, and patrolled Dogwood Lane's property values, the way some people patrol borders. And she kept a log, a real one. In hair phone, the jogger she had reported for looking unfamiliar. The mail carrier she had reported for lingering.
The basketball hoop she had gotten removed for being an eyesore. Every entry filed under a folder she had. Actually, truly named Neighborhood Standards. The Freemans had been on her radar since January when the moving truck arrived, and she had watched from her window a tall black man carry a flat screen inside his own house and had thought for one full second about calling it in. The nice lawn confused her.
The pretty wife confused her. The pickup truck offended her on a level she could not articulate. And now on a golden Saturday afternoon, there was smoke drifting across her fence line, base drifting across her patio, and 30 happy black people laughing three doors down from her open house signs. Lindsay Whitley put down her celery juice and picked up her phone. Todd, baby, she called toward the garage.
Get your shoes. It's finally happening. The first approach came at 1:00, and it came smiling. Lindsay crossed the street in white sneakers that had never touched dirt. Todd, trailing her with his phone already out, held low at his hip like a holstered thing.
She stopped at the edge of the Freeman yard, right where grass met, and clasped her hands like a kindergarten teacher. "Hi, he." Sorry to interrupt. Who's in charge of all this? That would be me. Anthony came around the grill, wiping his hands on the apron.
Smile easy. Anthony, we're the corner house. Can I help you, Lindsay Whitley? Three doors down. The white colonial.
She did not offer her hand. Her eyes went past him and did a slow lap of the yard. The tables, the coolers, the domino game, the guests, and came back with an inventory's worth of judgment. So, this is a lot. It's my mother's 70th birthday.
Anthony gestured toward the table. Warm, Mama Ernestine. That's her in the sun hat holding court. Can we fix you two a plate? Levi's ribs are almost criminal.
For one second, the smell of that smoker reached across the property line and nearly saved the whole afternoon. Then Lindsay's nostrils flared. And breeding won. We don't eat this, she said with a small gesture at the entire yard. The food, the music, the people, everything.