To be a Monday, it feels like a fairly lazy morning. Probably because John took the day off. Makes it feel like the weekend. He’s putting together a new entertainment center Marcy ordered for the new house. It arrived weeks ago, but John just hadn’t had time to assemble it.
Marcy is sitting on the couch, pretending to read a magazine. In truth, she’s eyeing her daughter’s bangs as they hang in her face. She really wishes Caroline would at least let her pull it back or braid it. Anything to keep it from hanging the way it does. It gives her the look of a disheveled child, and Marcy doesn’t like that. Caroline is a clean, neat, healthy little girl, and Marcy wants everything about her to speak to that. Caroline, on the other hand, couldn’t care less. She wants to wear shoddy shoes and have bedraggled hair, and she has what’s becoming dangerously close to a panic attack if Marcy tries to mess with any of it.
Marcy makes a mental note to ask the doctor about that. Maybe her attachment to her hair and her discomfort with being touched could mean something else.
She forces the thought out of her mind. Today, she’s determined to be happy with the seemingly small win of getting her to come down to the living room and play since John is home. Maybe she can let her becoming a daddy’s girl work for her. Not let it hurt her feelings so much. But she does everything for Caroline, bends over backward to accommodate her, so it’s hard. John just comes and goes as usual, without making any special efforts. Maybe that’s the key. Maybe she tries too hard, she and her control freak personality. She can’t change that overnight, though. Marcy is pleased with the progress she’s made thus far, and refuses to feel guilty for not being able to become a completely different person in the blink of an eye. It takes time to undo a lifetime of habits and tendencies. But her daughter is worth it, so she will continue to make every kind of adjustment she needs to in order to further both their relationship and Caroline’s emotional healing.
John sits up straight and stretches his shoulders and back. Marcy smiles down at him. “Stiff?”
“A little. This stud body of mine is getting a few miles on it.” He winks playfully and Marcy rolls her eyes.
“A few?”
“Hard to believe by looking at me, isn’t it?” He shifts easily to his feet and proceeds to twist his arms into a variety of flexing positions. Then he turns and gives her a view of his world-class ass—Marcy doubts even age can detract from its round, muscular perfection—and gives it a one-two clench. “Take it all in. I don’t mind.”
Marcy can’t help giggling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“In the best possible way, though, right?”
He walks to her and bends, pressing his lips to hers. She reaches up to cup his cheek with her palm. “In the best possible way.”
“That’s what I thought.” He gives her another peck and then pulls away. “I’m gonna get the mail. Stretch my legs.”
Marcy instantly feels a little tingle of tension invigorate her own muscles. She’s become more cautious and nervous than curious when it comes to the mail. Although it has been several days since the smashing of the box, several quiet days, Marcy still gets a little charge of apprehension at mail time.
Her foot bobs anxiously until John returns a few minutes later with several envelopes and a package. He hands the package to her.
“Oh, this must be the sign I ordered.”
“Sign?”
Marcy doesn’t bother responding. Rather, she tears into the box and removes a wooden plaque and an extendable metal holder for it that sticks into the ground. She holds up the sign for him to see.
“Why do we need a sign with our last name on it?”
“Because it’s pretty.” Marcy turns the sign around so she can look at it. It doesn’t only announce who resides at 6250 Larkspur; it adds a bit of beauty to the mailbox area. John replaced their crushed box with one similar to it—black wrought iron with scrollwork—and Marcy was able to find a customizable sign maker online that agreed to produce a sign for her, based on a sketch she sent. He’d done it perfectly. The wooden rectangle boasts THE STANLEYS in large calligraphy in the center and the sign guy etched some flowers into one corner of it that trail off into some vines that run along the bottom.
“You’ve never wanted ‘pretty’ at the mailbox before. What gives?”
Marcy sighs in irritation, lowering the sign to glower at her husband. “I know you think I’m crazy, but I’m telling you, there’s something up with you know who.” She tips her head back toward the Halpern house. “I don’t think it was a coincidence that we got their mail and then all of a sudden someone smashes our mailbox. That’s too much to be a coincidence.”
“Marcy,” John begins, his tone soft with the kind of tolerance one has for their child when his or her imagination has run amok. “The neighbor is not a criminal. It was probably just some dumb kids. You know how they are.”
“In this neighborhood?”
“Probably because it’s this neighborhood. Bigger chance of getting caught. Bigger rush. You know how teenagers can be.”
“Well, agree to disagree. This sign makes me feel better and it looks good. It’s a win-win. You can’t really argue with that.”
John chuckles lightly, shaking his head. “No, I wouldn’t dare argue with that.”
Marcy smiles, victorious. “Good. Would you mind getting the rubber mallet from the garage so I can go set this?”
“My wife…” he mumbles on his way out of the room. He returns two minutes later with the mallet and hands it to Marcy. “Want me to do it?”
“Nah. I’ll get some aggression out. Better out than in, right?” John smiles, but makes no comment. Marcy pauses to push up onto her tiptoes and kiss his chin. “I was kidding. I just don’t know which side I want to put it on yet. That’s all.”
“Okay.”
Marcy can tell he’s not convinced, but she doesn’t address it. She’s too eager to get outside and get the sign installed, hoping it will make her feel more at ease. Whether her imagination or not, lately she’s had a sense of foreboding she can’t shake. It’s kind of like the little rain cloud that follows Charlie Brown in the comics—just a little shadow over her normally sunny life that she can’t seem to outrun. She’s optimistic, however, that the sign will help. Both letters had been hand delivered and put into her mailbox by mistake (both had been printed with only Mark’s name and their address, no return information and no postal mark). Hopefully, the deliverer will see her sign next time—if there is a next time—and realize the box doesn’t belong to the Halperns. It should be a simple and effective fix. Unfortunately, there isn’t a simple or effective fix for the suspicions she now harbors about her next door neighbor.
With the sign hung and swinging slightly from the two hooks that support it on the stand, Marcy turns to walk back to her house. The sun shines brightly into her face and she squints up at it. She can’t help that her eyes dart toward that top window at the Halpern residence. The curtains aren’t moving today, but Marcy could swear there’s a shadow behind them. She blinks several times to clear the spots from her vision, and when she looks again, the shadow is gone.