Denise, my neighbor, has borrowed about ten things from me this year.
It started when she borrowed my ladder in the spring. Next was the pressure washer. Then she began taking things from my kitchen — the crock pot, the steamer, a cooler, my good roasting pan.
They were returned late, dirty, or without a lid. Not once did she bother to say anything.
Last Tuesday, she wanted to borrow my mixer.
It’s a KitchenAid, the heavy old kind, cream-colored. My mother bought it in 1989 and used it every Sunday until she couldn’t stand long enough anymore. It’s the one thing of hers I still use.
I said no. I actually said the word.
“”Denise, that one I’d rather not lend out. It was my mom’s.””
She laughed as though I were joking. “”I’ll be so careful. It’s one cake.””
She was still there. My daughter was watching from the porch steps.
And then I heard myself say, “”Fine.””
On Saturday morning, I saw it sitting on my porch.
She hadn’t handed it back to me. She hadn’t knocked on the door.
It was simply sitting on the boards beside the mat, where anyone passing could have picked it up.
Cream was dried into the seam where the head meets the body. Yellow, cracking, four days old.
She hadn’t rinsed it.
I plugged it in. The motor made a sound I’d never heard from it in thirty-six years.
I unplugged it and stood there, my hand still on the switch.
Then I crossed the grass and knocked on her door. I wasn’t even angry yet.
I honestly thought she’d been embarrassed — that’s why she’d left it and gone.
She opened the door with her coffee.
“”Oh — yeah,”” she said. “”Honestly, you should buy a new one. That thing is ancient. It quit halfway through my cream and I had eleven people sitting in my dining room with no cake.””
She took a sip.
“”So thanks for that ruined night, I guess.””
That was when I understood that she’d done it on purpose, and that she didn’t feel guilty about it at all.
So the next morning, I came up with the plan to teach her a nice lesson.