The letters were big, blocky, and neat, written in no particular haste. Our house was faced with tan shingles, and the edges of these shingles caused the pen to skip as it crossed from one to the next. Otherwise it had been done carefully, in broad daylight, while we were gone. The graffiti had not been there when we left that morning, I am sure of that.
I looked up and down the street. The sidewalks were empty. Down the block a gardening crew had parked a truck, and their mowers and leaf blowers buzzed loudly. No sign of neighbors. No people at all. Just neat green lawns, rhododendrons blooming pink and purple, a cordon of big old maples running the length of the block, shading the street.
Laurie jumped out and ran into the house, leaving Jacob and me to stare at the graffiti.
“Don’t let them get to you, Jake. They’re just trying to scare you.”
“I know.”
“This is just one idiot. That’s all it takes is one idiot. It’s not everyone. It’s not how people feel.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Not everyone.”
“Of course it is. It’s okay, Dad. I don’t really care.”
I twisted to look at him in the back seat. “Really? This doesn’t bother you?”
“No.” He sat with his arms crossed, eyes narrow, lips tight.
“If it did, you’d tell me, right?”
“I guess.”
“Because it’s okay to feel … hurt. You know that?”
He frowned disdainfully and shook his head, like an emperor declining to grant an indulgence. They can’t hurt me.
“So tell me. What are you feeling inside, Jake, right now, this minute?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? That’s not possible.”
“Like you said, it’s just one asshole. One idiot, whatever. I mean, it’s not like kids have never said anything bad about me, Dad. They do it to my face. What do you think school is? This”—he gestured with his chin toward the graffiti on the house—“this is just a different platform.”
I gazed at him a moment. He did not move, except that his eyes traveled from me to the passenger window. I patted his knee, though it was awkward to reach and the best I could manage was to tap my fingertip against the hard bone of his kneecap. It occurred to me that I had given him the wrong advice the night before, when I had told him to “be strong.” I was telling him, in so many words, to be like me. But now that I saw he had taken my words to heart and swaddled himself in theatrical toughness, like an adolescent Clint Eastwood, I regretted the comment. I wanted the other Jacob, my goofy, awkward son, to show his face again. But it was too late. Anyway, his tough-guy act was oddly moving to me.
“You’re a great kid, Jake. I’m proud of you. I mean, the way you stood up there today, now this. You’re a good kid.”
He snorted. “Yeah, okay, Dad.”
Inside I found Laurie on her hands and knees rummaging through the cleaning supplies in the cabinet under the kitchen sink. She was still wearing the navy skirt she wore to court.
“Just leave it, Laurie. I’ll take care of it. You go rest.”
“You’ll take care of it when?”
“Whenever you want.”
“You say you’ll take care of things and then you don’t. I don’t want that thing on my house. Not for one more minute. I’m not going to just leave it there.”
“I said I’ll take care of it. Please. Go rest.”
“How can I rest, Andy, with that thing? Honestly. Did you see what they wrote? On our home! On our home, Andy, and you want me to just go rest? Great. This is just great. They walk right up and write on our house and nobody says anything, nobody lifts a finger, not one of our fucking neighbors.” She enunciated the expletive meticulously, right down to the final G, as people who are not used to swearing often do. “We should call the cops. It’s a crime, isn’t it? It is a crime, I know it is. It’s vandalism. Should we call the cops?”
“No. We’re not calling the cops.”
“No. Of course not.”
She came up with a bottle of Fantastik, then snatched up a dish towel and soaked it under the faucet.
“Laurie, please, let me do this. Let me help you, at least.”
“Would you just stop? I said I’ll do it.”
She had taken off her shoes and she marched out like that, barefoot in her nylons, and she scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.
I went out with her, but there was nothing for me to do except watch.
Her hair bounced to the vigorous movements of her arm. Her eyes were wet and her face flushed.
“Can I help, Laurie?”
“No. I’ll do it.”
At length, I gave up watching and went back in. I heard her scruffing against the side of the house for a long time. She succeeded in rubbing out the words, but the ink left a gray cloud on the paint. It is still there today.