my pocket for my phone, my hands trembling with
adrenaline and rage.
Mrs. Graves let out a dry, rattling chuckle. 'Oh,
go right ahead and call the authorities,' she sneered,
setting her mug down on a small patio table. 'They
won't do a thing. Because I have the law on my side.'
She reached into her cardigan pocket and produced
a folded piece of heavy stock paper. With a
dramatic, sweeping gesture, she unfolded it and
thrust it toward my face. 'Read it and weep. It is an
official decree from the County Zoning Commission.'
I snatched the paper from her hand, my eyes
scanning the text. It looked incredibly official. It
featured a complex letterhead, a gold foil seal at the
bottom, and dense legal jargon. The document
claimed to be a 'Notice of Eminent Domain and
Property Line Rectification.' According to the text, a
historical surveying error from 1952 meant that the
property line actually extended ten feet further into
my yard, and granted the owner of 44 Elmwood
Drive the immediate right to clear the
'encroachment.'
I read it twice, my mind racing. It didn't make
any sense. We had a modern survey done just
fifteen years ago. The city had approved all our
permits. I looked back up at Mrs. Graves, who was
watching me with a victorious smirk. 'This is
garbage,' I told her, my voice low and dangerous. 'I
don't know where you printed this, but it's not real.'
She snatched the paper back. 'We will see about that
when the cement trucks arrive tomorrow. Now get
off my property before I have you arrested for
trespassing.'
I did call the police that afternoon, but because
Mrs. Graves presented her 'official notice' to the
responding officers, they claimed it was a 'civil
matter' and refused to make an arrest. They simply
told us to take it up with the city on Monday.
Eleanor and I spent a sleepless night staring at the
ceiling, the image of our ruined garden burned into