The Walkers
It was another miserable morning in a string of incessantly gray days when Beverly pulled aside the flimsy lace curtain and first glimpsed Millie’s even-paced shuffle. A shadow had initially drawn her to the window. She suspected the nasty black cat that had been hanging around might be lurking in her box hedges. But there was no cat, only her neighbor Millie in the road. She shuffled past without waving. Beverly frowned and closed the curtain.
The next morning, Beverly checked to make sure no cars were parked on the street. This was a favorite part of her daily routine; she’d gleefully ring the HOA to let them know about her neighbors’ policy violation. When Beverly glanced at the street, she found herself watching Millie walk by yet again. It was a strange coincidence, but Beverly didn’t believe in fate. Everything in her life could be controlled, managed, or leveraged.
Proper control was how she’d handled her son when he brought a boy home; unacceptable behavior was not tolerated in her home. He left. Her ex-husbands had to be dealt with so that she could control her own finances. Their departures were more permanent. Taking control of the situation was the practical prescription for all ailments.