Come Sunday: A Novel Read Free Page A

of the couch, and before he can answer I say, “Dog shit, Greg. It’s dog shit!”
    I hear a sharp intake of air. “Mommy, you said a bad word.” Cleo is anxious to inspect my parcel, while Greg looks at me uncomprehendingly. I march over to the phone, flip through to the back of my address book where the association’s homeowners are listed by last name and telephone number. Punching the numbers, I feel the scorching move from the back of my throat into my lungs as I prepare to address the president of the association.
    Her answering machine comes on after four rings, after four separate speeches have blazed a trail through my mind. “You have reached the Chung residence. You may leave a brief message after the third beep,” cackles Mrs. Chung’s scratchy voice. I hang up and dial GillianBeech’s number. “God bless,” she answers before the phone has completed its first ring.
    “Gillian, Abbe here from across the way. You got any idea why I have a bag of dog excrement and a box of Ziplocs by my mailbox?”
    “Oh, dear Lord. I told her not to do it, but she has been complaining about your dog for weeks.” Gillian doesn’t need to name the specific “she” to whom she refers; it is pronounced as a proper noun, thereby confirming my suspicion: Mrs. Chung. “She’s upset about him—ahem—defecating on her front lawn. I told her to just talk to you about it, that we are all mature Christians, amen?”
    “Gillian, our dog is enclosed in a yard. It’s our lawn he shits on,” I say, choosing a word I know will set Gillian’s sanctified soul on edge.
    “Yes, well, she’s very upset.”
    “You know she is mad at me because I won’t stop giving Mr. Tom food.”
    “Yes. Well. She feels that this sort of thing encourages the, um, how shall we say? The undesirable element. And most of us agree. You did receive the memo about the spate of burglaries, didn’t you?”
    I ignore her question. “The only undesirable element in this neighborhood as far as I’m concerned is a busybody who tries to pass herself off as a do-gooder.”
    “Might I suggest we pray about this—” Gillian begins, but I cut her off.
    “You tell her that she can gossip all she likes about my dog and his bowel movements, but the next time she so much as puts a toe on my property I’ll have her cited for trespassing and she can see how it feels. Oh, and you can tell her, since she’s so intent on preserving excrement, that I am returning this particular sample to her for safekeeping.”
    “Well, I think it best—” Gillian begins, but I hang up before she gets any further.
    Greg is still sitting on the couch when I get back from depositing the offending materials on Mrs. Chung’s doorstep. “How can it be leaking worse after a new roof?” I demand. He stands up, retrieves the newspaper from the table, and heads for the bathroom. “Good question!” he says.
    Why is he not making calls? I wonder. Why is he not dressed, keys in hand, ready to drive to somebody’s house and give them hell? There seems to be no apparent plan of action, which I find intolerable, even with a head cold.
    “Greg! What are we going to do?” I ask, standing at the closed bathroom door.
    “I don’t know,” is his muffled reply.
    “Can you call the roofing company?”
    “They are going to tell me that there is nothing wrong with the product and blame the installers.”
    “Well, whose fault is it?”
    “I don’t know.” His sigh is audible.
    “Aren’t you going to call Jakes?” I persist, sounding even to my own ears as though Greg were to blame.
    “Give me a minute, okay?” he says.
    I am about to remind him that two thousand dollars has just gone down the toilet when Cleo nudges me.
    “Mommy, can you fix her?” she asks. Barbie’s head is in one hand and her body in the other. This is exactly what I feel like doing to someone, definitely my neighbor, possibly Jakes, increasingly my husband.
    “Not right now, Cleo. Daddy and I are