My grandma woke up to find her Halloween decorations destroyed overnight. She didn’t yell or cry. She just looked next door and smiled.
« The neighbors already hate me, » Grandma said, looking at the wreckage in her yard. « Might as well give them a good reason. »
I stared at her.
« Grandma, what does that mean? »
She smiled.
That was the problem.
My Grandma June is 72, five feet three, and normally the least threatening person in any room.
But I knew that smile.
I’d seen it when my cousin tried to cheat at Monopoly when we were kids.
I’d seen it when a salesman tried charging her for repairs she didn’t need.
It meant she had already decided something.
She just wasn’t going to tell me yet.
« Grandma. »
She picked up the cracked wooden pumpkin lying beside her driveway.
« What? »
« What are you planning? »
« Nothing illegal. »
« That is not comforting. »
She ran her thumb across the split in the wood.
Grandpa had painted that pumpkin in 1998.
It had an uneven grin, one eye slightly larger than the other, and a crooked green stem.
It wasn’t worth money.
To Grandma, it was priceless.
She carried it inside.
« Coffee? »
I followed her.
« Someone destroyed your yard last night. »
« And coffee will still be necessary. »
That was Grandma.
Less than an hour earlier, she’d called me and said:
« Can you come over? »
Her voice had sounded strange.
Not frightened.
Not even angry.
Just flat.
When I got there, I understood why.
Her Halloween decorations were everywhere.
Not stolen.
Destroyed.
Fabric ghosts ripped open.
Orange lights cut into pieces.
Three little scarecrows she’d owned since I was a child had been snapped apart and tossed beside the driveway.
A stuffed witch from the ’90s was missing an arm.
Plastic spiders had been crushed.
The fake cobwebs had been pulled from the porch and thrown into the street.
And Grandpa’s pumpkin had been cracked down the middle.
Grandma had already started cleaning.
That somehow made it worse.
She was kneeling in the grass, carefully gathering scraps like she was cleaning up after a storm.
« Who did this? »
She glanced toward the house next door.
« I have an idea. »
The people living there were Brent and Melissa.
They’d moved in about six months earlier.
At first, I thought they were just the kind of people who cared a little too much about everything being neat.
Then the complaints started.
Grandma’s trash cans stayed beside the garage until six after collection?
Problem.
One of her bushes dropped leaves onto their driveway?
Problem.
Her wind chimes could be heard from their backyard?
Apparently also a problem.
Grandma kept trying to be polite.
She’d lived in that house thirty-eight years and had survived far worse neighbors.
Then September came.
Grandma loves Halloween.
Always has.
When my cousins and I were little, her house was the one everybody wanted to visit.
She made popcorn balls.
Put plastic spiders in the bushes.
Played creepy music through the living room window.
She’d sit on the porch wearing the same black witch hat every year and pretend not to recognize us.
« Who are these strange children? »
« Grandma! »
« I have no grandchildren. Only victims. »
Grandpa helped her decorate every year.
After he died five years ago, Grandma kept the tradition going.
Most of her decorations were cheap.
Thrift stores.
Yard sales.
Clearance bins.
A lot were older than I was.
This year, she started decorating September 1.
I had teased her.
« Grandma, it’s still basically summer. »
She pointed at three ceramic pumpkins.
« They’re not hurting anybody. »
Apparently Brent disagreed.
A few days later, he walked over while she was putting fake cobwebs around a porch post.
« You’re seriously decorating already? »
Grandma thought he was joking.
« Afraid so. »
He wasn’t.
He told her the decorations made the street look « tacky. »
Grandma said Halloween decorations in September were hardly a neighborhood emergency.
Then he said, « Some of us are trying to keep the area looking nice. »
That made her stop smiling.
« I’ve lived here 38 years. »
« I’m just asking you to be considerate. »
« I’ll take them down after Halloween. »
He walked away annoyed.
The decorations stayed.
And then, early Sunday morning, somebody shredded them.
Grandma had a doorbell camera.
She barely knew how to use it.
I pulled up the footage.
At 1:17 a.m., two people walked across her lawn.
The video wasn’t perfect.
It didn’t need to be.
One wore the same bright running shoes Brent wore almost every morning.
The other had a small white dog following her.
Melissa owned a small white dog.
We watched them cut the lights.
Rip the ghosts.
Kick the scarecrows.
Melissa picked up one ceramic pumpkin and threw it into the grass.
Then Brent knocked over Grandpa’s wooden pumpkin.
Grandma watched the video twice.
I was furious.
« Call the police. »
She handed me the phone.
« In a minute. »
« In a minute? »
She began putting broken pieces into a box.
« Grandma. »
« I heard you. »
« Then why are you acting like someone stepped on a flower? »
She looked toward Brent’s house.
« Because screaming won’t unbreak anything. »
Then she picked up Grandpa’s pumpkin.
Her face changed.
« He made this in 1998. »
That was when she smiled and told me the neighbors might as well have a good reason to hate her.
For the rest of Sunday, she refused to explain.
She did call the police.
That surprised me.
I had expected her to avoid the hassle.
An officer came, watched the footage, photographed the damage, and made a report.
He said the video helped but warned that identifying them from it might still become an argument.
Grandma nodded.
Then asked, « Can I decorate my own yard as much as I want? »
The officer blinked.
« As long as you’re not violating any city rules. »
« Wonderful. »
I should have known.
The next morning she called me at 7:06.
« I need a ride. »
« Where? »
« Hardware store. »
« Why? »
« Supplies. »
I sat up.
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