I wanted the driveway to resemble neither a police evidence room nor a yard sale. It was simply an inventory in the open air. I grouped the Christmas lights together, laid the pool equipment in a separate row, and arranged the personal belongings by where they had been found. The expensive lounger sat at the edge nearest Patricia's fence. I draped the monogrammed towel over its back exactly as I had photographed it in the backyard.
The lawn mower was beside it. The letters P. VOSS had been written on its handle in blue permanent marker.
Nearby sat a partly used box of blue-green ceramic tile, the same pattern that lined Patricia's newly renovated swimming pool. I put the cement mixer and the portable heater close enough that anyone standing beside them could see their relation to the pool equipment. The two kayaks rested on their sides near the fence. I had placed the child's bicycle on a stand so that the flat tire did not hide its shape.
There were association items too, or at least items that appeared to be shared. A box of replacement cart parts, spare folding-chair feet, extension cords, and additional light strings. I marked those clearly and asked anyone claiming them to tell me which committee or household they belonged to. I did not try to sort out title by looking at a label. My purpose was to make the confusion visible, not to replace Patricia as the person who decided what belonged to whom.
At eleven fifty I filled a large pitcher with lemonade and set out paper cups. I had made too much. It occurred to me that my first social event in Larksburg Commons might be attended by nobody but Dale, who would drink two cups from courtesy and spend the rest of the afternoon staring at the pavement. I checked the time, adjusted the sign on the table, and waited.
At noon, Bev arrived.
She was smaller than I had realized, with gray hair beneath a sun visor and a careful way of placing her feet on the uneven sidewalk. She stood near the Christmas lights without touching them. I greeted her, offered lemonade, and told her she was welcome to look around. She accepted the cup, thanked me, and began examining the labels.
"I used to take that cart to church," she said after a moment.
"Dale mentioned it."
"Trish said it was a community program. I didn't know whose garage it was in. I never asked." She looked at the table, then at my open garage. "I should have asked."
"You were told something that sounded reasonable."
"Maybe." She shook her head. "Sometimes reasonable is just convenient wearing a nice hat."
Before I could answer, Dale appeared with two neighbors from Meadow Court. Then a couple from Thistle Way arrived, followed by a teenager whose mother had asked him to retrieve the last of the extension cords. Within fifteen minutes there were more than twenty people on the driveway, moving slowly between the rows with paper cups in their hands. A few had come openly to reclaim property. Others looked as though they had been drawn by the same curiosity that gathers people whenever a utility crew begins digging in the road.