Loving Thy Neighbor

“Randolf Bader, ma’am. Saw the commotion an’ heard banging,” he said. “Thought I should see what all the ruckus was about. Don’t have many little kids on the street anymore. Big ones, though. Some of ’em can’t be trusted to stay outta trouble.”

“Randolf lives two doors down from here,” Bette explained to Quincee. “He heads our neighborhood watch program.”

“That’s good to know,” Quincee said. “Well, Mr. Bader, I’m trying to remove this padlock. There doesn’t seem to be a key to it, and anyway, it has rusted and corroded until it’s completely sealed. So far, a hammer against it hasn’t broken it.”

“A saw might do it,” Gene said.

“I think you should get aholt of one of those tools like giant pliers,” said Mr. Bader.

“Don’t think so, Randolf,” Gene contradicted. “Wouldn’t cut it. Besides, those things take a lot of muscle power.”

“That let’s you out then,” Mr. Bader said.

Gene pursed his lips. “And I suppose you could do it?”

“Wasn’t saying that, now, was I?”

“You may have to call in a locksmith,” Bette said hastily. “They know about these things.”

“What’s going on?” said the deep voice behind her. Quincee would recognize that voice from only a syllable spoken.

Hearing it certainly caused her tummy to dip. She hadn’t heard his approach.

They all turned his way in unison, as though his presence commanded the highest respect even in the neighborhood.

Dressed in a lightweight summer suit, the charcoal shade over a stark white shirt coupled with a cranberry red tie, Judge Hamilton Paxton appeared as appropriate to the law profession as if he waved his degree like a flag.

“Hello, there, Hamilton,” Gene greeted. “Just getting acquainted with your new neighbors.”

“Is there a problem?” Hamilton asked.

“Not really. It’s—” Quincee began.

“She needs a locksmith,” Bette said.

“I’m not sure that’s necessary yet,” Quincee said as she tried again. She didn’t want to spend money on locksmith services unless she had no other choice. Her last paycheck had gone to pay for her traffic fine and for the moving expenses, and what little was left had to stretch to the first of next month.

“Old Denby hadn’t touched that lock in years,” Gene added.

“What would really do it is a sledgehammer,” Mr. Bader said. He went to investigate the lock for himself, rattling it as though to shake it off. “You got a sledgehammer in all them tools you got, Gene?”

“I don’t want to smash more than the lock,” Quincee said hastily.

“Well, I’ve a hacksaw someplace,” Gene said. “If I can find it. M’son borrowed it last winter and I’m not sure it’s been returned.”

“Please don’t bother,” Quincee said. “I’ll—”

“Never mind, Gene,” the judge said. “I have a hacksaw. I’ll see to it later for Miss Davis.”

Quincee shot a quizzical gaze toward the judge. Why was he so nice all of a sudden? Why would he offer to help her?

“Uh-oh. I just remembered the roast I have in the oven,” Bette said in a sudden flurry. “Let me know if you need us to help you with anything in that pile of junk, my dear,” she said to Quincee. She smiled at the children, who had drifted away to run about the yard, before saying, “Coming, Gene?”

“Be right there, Bette, love.” Gene turned to the judge. “Say, Hamilton, did your grandfather ever find those old snapshots he promised to go through? Was a bunch from years back when our sons were just little tykes.”

“I don’t know that he ever did, Gene. There’s a dozen boxes of old stuff he had in the attic that you’re welcome to look through if you’d like.”

“Now, Hamilton,” Bette protested with humor as she edged toward the street. The others followed. “Don’t get Gene started on your old stuff. We have enough of our own that we need to do something with. We’re all getting too old to hang on to these leftovers, and our children don’t want any of it.”

“Why don’t you have a garage sale?” Quincee threw the idea into the pot, strolling along.

“Thought about it,” Mr. Bader said. “Daughter-in-law’s got her eye on my coin collection, but she don’t want nothing else of mine.”

“A yard sale has come to mind,” Bette said, seeming to forget her urgency to tend to dinner. “But Gene doesn’t want to mess with one.”

“Too much work,” Gene said. “And too many people pawing through things, making a wreck of it.”

“If it’s done well, that can be directed and controlled,” Quincee suggested.

“How do you mean?” Bette asked.

“You could combine your sales and efforts into one location. Have a neighborhood block sale. They’re always popular. And if you combine your forces, there would be several of you on hand to help people with purchases while one person takes the money. That would give you more control.”

Quincee stopped near the sidewalk. Dandelions sprouted around her ankles in all their golden beauty. Almost marking the property line, healthy grass from the judge’s yard warred with her spotty weeds.

“I don’t like the idea,” the judge said. “It would disturb the neighborhood.”

“Combining efforts into a group sale sounds wonderful to me,” Bette said. “But, oh my, that takes a lot of work to organize such an event. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

“I could do it,” Quincee said. She’d never handled one before, but she’d headed the committee for the school fair last year. “I’m very good at organization.”

Hamilton gave her a pointed stare. She bit her lip and tried to ignore him. Why was he so skeptical? She was an organized person.

“Oh, but my dear,” Bette protested. “You’ve just moved in here, and have so much of your own work to take care of.”

“That’s for sure,” she replied. “But the kids and I have the whole summer to see to our own things. And I can organize the sale and still paint my house this month.”

Providing her one credit card would stretch to cover the paint and supplies. And there was always the hope she might sell some things in the sale herself. A few dollars extra this month could be a lifesaver. Her enthusiasm for the sale suddenly became personal.

I can do all things through Him Who gives me strength, she mentally quoted.

“It really isn’t a good plan,” Hamilton insisted. “It would bring too many strangers around.”

“Say, young lady,” Mr. Bader said. “What would you charge to do a thing like that? Ten percent?”

“Randolf, you’re behind the times.” Gene crowed at scoring one on Bader. “Nobody does anything for only ten percent anymore. It’s fifteen now.”

“You’re both wrong,” Bette said. “It’s twenty percent or more in these things. Estate sales and all that.”