“I’m Ed Fleming’s daughter. I’m your landlady now. I’m Neda Fleming.”
The woman’s defenses rose visibly. Neda had thought through what she was
going to say, but hadn’t considered until now that a renter could be cornered,
made dangerous. Hillsicker’s square jaw menaced. “My husband deals with all
that,” she said.
“I’m sorry to say he’s fallen several months behind—”
“—You’ll have to talk this over with him,” she said, taking hold of the knob,
shutting the door.
“If he’s home we can clear this up now,” Neda said into the closing gap.
“I really can’t help no more.”
The door slammed in Neda’s face. Her own door. She heard the deadbolt lock.
94
She photographed the junk in the yard with her phone. Some of her father’s
files were thick with Polaroids, documenting the steady creep of trash, the sum
damages. She needed both hands to steady the camera.
*
Cadell was working on the yard when Neda came home. He raised his hand,
met her where she parked. The pickup coughed and hacked after she turned the
key. Cadell hung his arms in the passenger window and looked intently at the
dashboard, as if diagnosing the engine through the glove box. She kept her foot
on the brake till it grumbled into silence.
“That noise,” he said, “I bet I can fix it so it won’t make that noise anymore.”
Neda looked at the gray-to-silver patch of hair crowning his head. Her hands
still shook from the encounter with the Hillsicker woman and she gripped the
wheel tighter to hide the tremors. Cadell looked up, caught something in her
expression. “How’s other things treating you, Miss Fleming?” he said.
“Please. I’m Neda.”
“Young girl like yourself, there’s some folks you rent to who might try to take