Mark was an electrician.
Elise taught middle school history.
Across the street lived Mrs. Bell, a widow in her seventies who knew absolutely everything that happened within a quarter mile.
Not because she was nosy, according to her.
Because she was observant.
“You met Brenda yet?” she asked one morning.
“Yes.”
Mrs. Bell made a face.
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
That was all she said.
I saw quickly.
A notice appeared on Mark’s door because one wheel of his work van touched the edge of the driveway overnight.
Someone else was fined because a basketball hoop had faded paint.
Brenda seemed especially interested in visibility.
Things seen from streets bothered her.
Trash cans.
Tools.
Toys.
Curtains.
Garage storage.
One afternoon she stopped me while I was replacing a porch light.
“You’re changing the fixture?”
“Bulb.”
“Oh.”
She studied it.
“Warm white?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the color temperature?”
