It was early evening, the sun not even down yet, but as we stood there, the streetlight behind us buzzed, then flickered on. Instantly, I saw our shadows cast across the empty space behind the frame: my mother’s tall and thin; Caroline’s, her hands on her hips, elbows at right angles. And then there was me, falling between them. I put a hand to my face, then let it drop back to my side, watching my shadow mimic me.
“I should go ahead and get my pictures,” Caroline said, starting toward the truck. “Before it gets totally dark.”
As she walked to the truck, another car slowed down in front of the house, the horn beeping. The passenger side window rolled down and a woman I vaguely recognized as one of the realtors my mother did business with leaned across the front seat. “Deborah, how brilliant!”
My mother walked a little closer to the curb. “I’m sorry?” she said.
“Those pieces!” the woman replied, waving toward them. She had on a big clunky wooden bracelet that kept sliding up and down her arm with every gesture. “What a great tie-in to the finish of the construction phase, using building materials from the townhouses to make decorations! How smart of you!”
“Oh, no,” my mother said, “it’s not—”
“I’ll see you tomorrow!” the woman said, not even listening. “Just brilliant!” And then she drove off, beeping the horn again, while my mother just stood there, watching her go.
Caroline was walking across the grass with her camera now, bending down to center the bigger angel in the shot. “You know,” she said, looking down at her feet, “I don’t care what you say. Something is wrong with the yard. I noticed it as soon as I pulled up. It’s like . . . uneven, or something.”
“We had a little problem,” I told her, as she lifted the camera to her eye. A second later, the shutter snapped. “We’ve had a few, actually.”
I was waiting for my mother to deny this, or at least smooth it over, but when I turned to look at her I saw she wasn’t even really listening. Instead, she was facing the street, where, as often happened at this time of night, people were starting to pass by on after-dinner walks, pushing strollers or leading dogs, and kids were circling on their bikes, racing past, then doubling back, then back again. Tonight, though, something was different: everyone was looking at our yard, at the sculptures, some people just standing on the sidewalk outright staring. My mother saw this, too.
“You know,” she said to Caroline, carefully, “I’m wondering if maybe these pieces would work well at the reception. They certainly add a bit of flair to the yard, at any rate.”
Caroline took another picture, then stood up and started toward the wheel whirligig. “I was going to leave tonight,” she said, not looking at my mother as she set up another shot. “I have plans.”
For a second, I thought that was it. She was saying no, and there was nothing we could do about it. My mother knew this, too, I could tell by the way she stepped back, nodding her head. “Of course,” she said. “I understand completely.”
For a second none of us said anything, and I wondered if, in the end, this is how all disputes are settled, with a shared silence as things become equal. You take something from me, I take something from you. We all want balance, one way or another.
“But,” Caroline said, “I suppose I could stick around. It’s just one night, right?”
“Yes,” my mother said, as Caroline lifted the camera to her eye. “It’s just one night.”
So Caroline stayed, first taking pictures until dark, then going inside, where she and my mother circled each other warily but politely, until we all went to bed. As usual, I couldn’t sleep, and after an hour or so of tossing and turning I climbed out onto my rooftop and stared down at Wes’s work on the grass before me. The sculptures looked so out of place to me there, as if they’d been dropped from the sky.
I dozed until about three A.M., then woke up to feel a breeze blowing through my open window. Regardless of my mother’s insistence, the weather was clearly changing. Sitting up, I pushed aside my curtain, looking out over the roof to the lawn. All of the sculptures had parts that were now spinning madly, whistling, buzzing, calling. The noise was loud enough to drown out everything. I couldn’t believe I’d even been able to sleep through it. I lay back down and listened for another hour or so, waiting for it to stop, for the wind to die back down, but it never did. If anything it grew louder, then louder still, and I thought I’d never get to sleep again. But somehow, I did.
Macy. Wake up.
I sat up, fast, my father’s voice still in my head. It’s a dream, I told myself, but in those first moments of waking confusion, I wasn’t sure.
The last time I’d heard those words, that way, it had been winter. Cold, the trees bare. Now, a summer breeze, strong but sweet smelling, was blowing. A dream, I thought, and slid back down to put my cheek against my pillow, closing my eyes. But also like the last time, about three minutes later something made me get up.
I looked out the window, at first not believing my eyes. But after I blinked once, then twice, to make sure I was really awake, there was no denying that Wes was standing in my front yard, the truck parked at the curb behind him. It was seven A.M. and he was just looking at all his pieces, at their movement, and then, as I shifted, leaning in closer to my screen, at me.
For a second, we just stared at each other. Then I walked to my bureau, pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, slipped down the staircase quietly, and went outside.