“Grant,” Irene said from her recliner. “Sit down, dear. Loretta’s going to talk.”
Because she was eighty-four and in her own house, he sat.
I opened the manila folder on the coffee table, next to the bars.
The first thing I put down was Jim’s spiral notebook from the glove box. It was swollen from twenty-six winters of being damp. I opened it to the first page. November 21, 1996. 9 inches. Started 4:10. Did whole court.
“My husband plowed this road for twenty-six years,” I said. “Most of you knew that. Some of you didn’t. Last year, I plowed it. Twice. Those are my entries at the back. My handwriting isn’t as nice as his.”
Then I laid down four pages from the HOA’s own annual reports. 2021, 2022, 2023, 2024. I’d highlighted the snow removal line in yellow. Thirteen thousand five hundred. Fourteen thousand. Fourteen thousand four hundred. Fourteen thousand eight hundred.
