The HOA would waive my annual dues indefinitely.
I would keep "exclusive residential occupancy" of the house.
That phrase amused me.
The paper offered to let me keep my house.
Then, near the bottom:
Homeowner acknowledges historical community use and agrees that such use shall continue as an appurtenant accommodation.
Someone had chosen their words carefully.
If signed and later treated as binding, it would give future arguments something they currently lacked.
My consent.
Patricia smiled.
"Everybody keeps what they have."
"Nobody needs attorneys."
"Nobody needs police."
I folded the paper.
Handed it back.
"I'll think about it."
She smiled.
"Good."
I climbed back onto the ladder.
I did think about it.
For approximately thirty seconds.
The document was not a compromise.
It was a survey stake.
Patricia was measuring how much of my property I would voluntarily surrender if the request arrived politely enough.
The next discovery came from a screwdriver.
I needed a Phillips head on Tuesday evening.
The kitchen had a junk drawer.
Every kitchen eventually develops one.
Mine had inherited the sediment of several previous households.
Rubber bands.
Dead batteries.
A key that fit nothing I owned.
Takeout menus from restaurants that had closed.
Three mismatched cabinet knobs.
At the bottom sat a letter addressed to Linda Marsh at 14 Larks Lane.
Forwarded twice.
Returned once.
On the back, someone had written a phone number in pencil.
Beside it:
CALL IF IT SELLS.
I called the next afternoon during lunch.
A woman answered on the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
"Is this Linda Marsh?"
"Yes."
"My name is Thomas Hale."
"I recently bought your old house at 14 Larks Lane."
Silence.
Long enough that I checked the screen.
"Ms. Marsh?"
"You're in the house?"
"I'm actually standing outside the courthouse."
Another pause.
"Is her motor home still there?"
I almost laughed.
"Yes."
Linda did laugh.
But there was no joy in it.
"I lasted five months."
I found a bench and sat.
"What happened?"
"What didn't?"
"She called the police on me eleven times."
I stared across the courthouse plaza.
"Eleven?"
"Once because I carried groceries through the garage."
"Once because my nephew parked in my driveway."
"Once because my husband locked the garage."
"She reported a suspicious vehicle when my sister visited."
"I stopped counting after that."
"Why?"
"Because counting started making me feel crazy."
She exhaled.
"I asked her why her RV was on my property."
"Next morning a deputy came asking whether I was authorized to be in the house."
I looked down.
"The people before you?"
"The Bakers?"
"No. They came after me."
"The Kowalskis were before me."
"Seven months."
"I never met the family before them."
"Did everyone have the same problem?"
"I don't know everything."
"But the garage was full when I moved in."
"The RV was on the driveway."
"Golf cart."
"Christmas lights."
"Refrigerator."