By Sunday afternoon most of the plastic tubs had been claimed. The folding chairs were gone, the pool skimmers gone, and the golf cart had been collected by a man who showed me a letter confirming that the association owned it. I photographed that exchange as well. The refrigerator remained until the following Wednesday, when two men in an unmarked van arrived early, presented a handwritten authorization from Patricia, and rolled it away without explanation.
The garage was empty when I went in that evening.
The concrete floor bore dustless rectangles where the cart and refrigerator had stood, and the outlet on the wall had a faint discoloration around the cover. For the first time, I could imagine pulling my truck inside, hanging my tools on the rear wall, and forgetting the whole ridiculous business. I swept the floor. I moved my own boxes in. I made the mistake of believing that removing the things would also remove the claim behind them.
On Monday at four forty-five, I turned into Larks Lane after work and found Patricia Voss's motor home parked across my driveway.
It was not a small travel trailer. It was thirty-two feet of tan fiberglass with a brown stripe along the side, tinted windows, an awning folded against the roof, and a satellite dish mounted near the rear. Its nose was parked so close to my garage door that I could not have fit my hand between them. Its back end extended across the sidewalk. The license plate frame read Larksburg Commons President in silver letters.
I sat in my truck at the edge of the cul-de-sac and stared at it, waiting for the ordinary explanation to present itself. Perhaps it was being loaded for a trip. Perhaps it had been moved from the street for a repair. Perhaps somebody was in the middle of rearranging vehicles and would be along in a minute. I had scarcely unfastened my seat belt when Patricia appeared at the split-rail fence separating our lots.
She was wearing the same sunglasses and had the lanyard around her neck. The woman stood with her forearms resting on the top rail and watched me through the windshield. She had the confident patience of someone waiting for a passenger to reach the baggage claim. By the time I stepped out, she was smiling.
"This has been my parking spot for three years," she said.
"It is my driveway."
"The driveway is wide, and the house was empty. It made sense. Nobody was inconvenienced before you arrived."
"I'm inconvenienced now."
"You're new here. You'll understand how we do things. You can park on the street. There is plenty of room."
I looked at the motor home, then at her. "You understand that I own the pavement underneath it."
She shrugged. "I understand that the neighborhood has arrangements older than your purchase. You can't move into an established community and expect every arrangement to disappear because you don't like it."