I was weeding the flower bed in the dappled sunshine, the light of a clear morning sun flickering through the ruddy leaves of the old dogwood tree. The shade was cool on my back and the little morning breeze was cold. There was a lot of work left to do. Fresh mulch, to start. Fall color for the fence line. I twisted the knob and gave the sprinkler more power. The breeze misted cold hose water on the back of my neck. I sat back on my heels and stretched.
I finally had the peony beds where I wanted them. Just a week ago they had been the lush, heady showgirls of my little yard. And the hostas under the maple were going to bloom soon. The dark green dahlia stalks promised the season’s best show in just about a month. A little work in the mornings to keep the weeds at bay and I could have a justifiable bit of pride in the yard even yet.
I pulled at a dandelion. The flower bed was plunged into darkness. A menacing shadow hung in the air for a second and then crossed into the grass.
Thunder crashed behind me and the ground rolled under my knees. I fell forward, grabbing the trunk of the slim, old tree in front of me. I puffed a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. I pried my eyes open with a will and turned to see what bomb had fallen. Behind me, a monstrous concrete form stretched across the yard. It sank into the dirt crushing everything beneath it.
My heart rocked in my chest, but the sound of cartoons, quietly in the distance, reminded me the kids had just gotten up and were still half asleep, in their jammies, and safe.
My mind jumped—the dog! I turned in a circle, madly before I saw him cowering at the door. I took a deep breath. We were safe.
I sidled up to the back door and slipped in, my eye on the devastation. I inched onto the couch and wrapped my arms around the children, breathing deeply. “Mo-om,” my ten year old son said, disentangling himself. I squeezed my six year old daughter tightly as she wiggled, glad for attention.
“Did you guys see the statue fall?” I asked.
“Huh?” Nate grunted.
“Go look!” I shoved my son off the couch. He turned his head casually to the sliding glass door.
“Dude” He said, turning back to the TV.
I pulled Ivy onto my lap and squeezed. She slipped out of my arms giggling. “Mommy, can we have a snack?”
I hip-bumped her on my way back outside.
It was thirty five feet long, my husband told me once. And probably solid. It fell across my yard from East, crushing the good neighbor fence between our homes and knocking down the arborvitae on the west border of the yard. It was mostly face down. Brutus, as we called him, had been staring at us out of the corner of his eye for years. I knew he had it in for us, was watching us. Apparently I was right.
Lying across my lawn, he did not look smaller than he used to. At his narrow waist he was three feet high at least, but his shield stuck out farther, taller than me, at its highest. Any minute now the Digiorno’s would be running over florid with apologies, excuses and likely just a little bit of blame as well. Where Brutus crossed the fence, at about his mid-calf, the wooden fence was splintered and my hopeful hostas obliterated. The maple tree was half sheered. I thought there was probably a small pink bike under him as well.
I thought the sound of a thirty foot solider falling in your yard would be enough to wake the dead. But it was only 7, so maybe the Digiorno’s weren’t up yet. I’d give them an hour. I squinted into the upper story window that was probably their bathroom, but no lights were on.
Brutus really was an ugly statue and always had been. He had disturbing, pupil-less eyes that made all status look bling. And on a thirty-five foot tall brute overlooking your fence, his vision impairment, combined with his generally hostile manner, was worrying. He had a hooked roman nose, beefy lips and a very thick neck. If concrete could be tested for doping or steroids, this one should have been. He cast his shadow over what had been our rose garden until we moved it and had always seemed to threaten worse action than shading out our roses if we didn’t toe the line. Apparently we hadn’t.
