I haven’t mentioned the neighbors on the other side of Anne. That’s probably because Ken and Jill are quiet, and normal, and not noteworthy. They live in a medium-sized house on the north side of the three-unit condo arrangement that houses Anne, Bertilda and Jerry. From where the creek turns into our back yards to where it plunges under the street, the order is my place, Anne’s, and then theirs.

Ken and Jill are remodeling. Their kids have left the nest and they’re adding a deck and reducing the number of bedrooms from four small to two big and a home office. They’re also having some sewer work done.

So there’s a portable potty and a pile of gravel on the edge of their driveway. That driveway abuts Anne’s place right at the edge of the front yard. The yard is common condo area, but crazy Bertilda thinks it’s hers because she sometimes weeds there.

Anyway, I’m writing about the gravel. It’ s mostly in a neat pile, on a big tarp of black plastic, on the concrete end of Ken and Jill’s driveway where that meets the sidewalk. Over the weekend we had some wind. And maybe a few dogs who trod on the gravel pile. Bits of it have migrated off the tarp.

Well, Bertilda has been sighted out there more than once, long handled shovel in hand, relocating stray gravel back onto the pile. She goes at like a fireman stoking the burner in a steam engine.

The first time was two days ago, mid day. She grumbled at me about the “damn neighbors – the noise is bad enough – now we get to deal with their fucking garbage.”

Then it happened this evening. Just before dark I headed out to the sidewalk to meet a friend for a walk and dinner. Bertilda seemed happy at her shoveling. She acted like it was a regular task of hers and asked me, pleasantly, if I was going to work.

I ran into Anne when I came back from dinner and mentioned the latest idiosyncracy. She told me I had seen nothing, yet. Ken and Jill have received regular complaints from Bertilda about noise and dust (the work is quiet and neat, as far as I can tell). This morning Ken answered the doorbell to find a flaming paper bag of cat shit on his front porch. He’s not calling anyone, but he’s positive about the perpetrator.

Anne heard the story from Carol, Jason’s mother, who lives with her son and husband on the south side of my house. The creek doesn’t run through their yard, but down the side between them and me. Carol and her husband are in the psychotherapy field, and totally dedicated to raising their not-very-normal boy. Jason is at least on the spectrum. Personally, especially after the fire, I think the kid has the marks of a junior psychopath.

Carol is the Mother Teresa around here. She thinks Bertilda deserves nothing other than compassion and accommodation. Then again, she’s never been the target of Bertilda’s hostility. At this point Bertilda acts like Carol is her best friend.

So at the same time that Carol filled Anne in about the cat shit incident, she told Anne that she had taken up Bertilda’s offer to tutor Jason in German. The two of them seem to get along together, she explained, and Jason can use any help he can get. Surprisingly, Bertilda seems able to teach. Even Carol joked that it might keep her off the streets. We’re all cautiously hopeful. Everyone is a little more comfortable with Bertilda walking away from the diminishing pile of gravel.