Watering Can on the Edge of the Law

"You moving in with suitcases or a backhoe, Aunt Marie?" came a shout from the window of an SUV that had just flattened a stretch of ornamental lawn with its back tire. Marie Hanson stood on the porch of her cabin outside Woodstock, Vermont, a watering can in her hand, staring in disbelief.

It was a Saturday morning in late August, the air still heavy from a recent rain. Over the fence, she could hear her neighbor's TV — a football broadcast, a touchdown, cheering. Marie had just been about to water the tomatoes in her greenhouse when a dark gray SUV came rattling up to the house and plowed straight into the lavender bed.

Behind the wheel sat her nephew Dale, a man in his forties with a growing gut and a gold chain under an unbuttoned shirt. Beside him, his girlfriend Brandy climbed out in platform sandals that sank instantly into the mud by the well.

"Ugh, this is a swamp, Dale! You said there'd be a patio!" Brandy made a face, inspecting her dirty toes with disgust.

Marie set the can down on the railing. "Hello. You could have at least called. I wasn't expecting you."

"Come on, Aunt Marie, always so gloomy," Dale waved her off, surveying the property like it already belonged to him. "We're here for three days — grill some burgers, clear our heads. It's a furnace in Hartford right now, a hundred degrees on the pavement."

"This isn't a bed-and-breakfast," Marie said evenly. "And I only have one spare room, and it's full of canned goods and drying laundry."

"We'll sort it out," Dale brushed her off. "But first we need to handle something more important. The truck." He nodded at the SUV, parked crosswise over the flower bed. "Where do I put it, on the shed roof?"

"There's a lot by the fire station on the green," Marie suggested. "Paved, with a security camera."

"A hundred and fifty yards on foot in this heat? No way. I've got a cooler full of burger patties back there, a speaker, bags. I came here to relax, not to haul stuff like a bellhop."

Brandy, meanwhile, was circling the car, holding up the hem of her short dress. "Dale, this is seriously Little House on the Prairie. What are these bushes doing in the middle of the yard? You can't even set up a lounge chair."

"Exactly," Dale nodded, popping the trunk. "Aunt Marie, listen to the plan. Nobody's going to miss this lavender. We clear the lot, dump some gravel, and it'll be a real parking spot."

He pulled a metal gas can with dark stains on the side out of the trunk, along with a shovel and a coiled steel tow strap.

"What's in the can?" Marie asked, feeling the anger tighten in her chest.

"Diesel mixed with used motor oil and some weed killer, the guys at the garage told me about it," Dale explained proudly. "We pour it under the roots so nothing grows back. I'll order gravel delivery tonight."

"I planted that lavender eight years ago," Marie said, running her thumb along a bruised stem the SUV's tire had already crushed. "I covered it with pine branches every winter."

"Here we go with the drama," Brandy rolled her eyes. "The man's breaking his back trying to fix this place up, and she's crying over some flowers."

"It's my property," Marie answered. "And there's not going to be any gravel here."

Dale planted his hands on his hips. "Aunt Marie, don't be difficult. You're alone out here, what do you even need a garden for at your age? We're bringing you some civilization and instead of thanks you're putting on airs."

"I never asked you for civilization. Grab your things and get back on the road."

Brandy frowned. "Dale, do something. I at least want a shower, it's unbearably hot out here."

"Nowhere to get one," Marie said. "The pump's down the well, the watering can's by the bed."

"Excuse me?" Brandy's eyes went wide. "And how are we supposed to wash up after the drive?"

"You're not. Get back in and drive to Hartford."

Dale slammed the shovel against the walkway. "What are you talking about, old woman? We dragged ourselves sixty miles up the interstate and you're kicking us out at the gate?"

"Nobody dragged you here."

"You don't have to invite us, this is our house! Dad built it, you know that! It's family land!"

Marie stepped closer to him. "Your father built it, but after he died I bought out every share. I wired your mother the money, I counted cash into your hand myself, down to the last dollar. Did you forget? I worked night shifts at the power plant to pay it off."

"Oh, so you think because you paid us off you're the lady of the manor now?" Dale snapped, stepping closer. "It's shared family property. And my truck is going to sit right here, you understand? And I'm killing these bushes now, since we can't do this the easy way."

He grabbed the can and unscrewed the cap. A choking stink of diesel spread across the yard.

"Step aside, Aunt Marie, don't try it. I'll hook the tow strap to the hitch and in a few minutes these bushes come out roots and all."

Brandy smirked and crossed her fingers. "Finally, show him who's boss."

Marie took a step back, her fingers tightening around the watering can's handle until the metal bit into her palm. There was no reasoning with people like this — they only understood force. She set the can down on the porch rail, reached into the pocket of her garden apron, and closed her fist around the plastic body of a remote with two rubber buttons.

Last year, when she'd had an automatic sprinkler system installed, the plumber had hooked a powerful pump to the well, rated at ninety pounds of pressure. Pipes with hidden brass sprinkler heads ran along the whole flower bed and the length of the driveway. The pressure was strong enough to knock ripe apples off the branches.

She looked at the SUV. The windows on both the driver's and passenger's side were rolled halfway down against the heat. Light-colored upholstery gleamed on the seats, a big touchscreen shone on the dashboard. On the walkway beside it sat a cooler of marinated meat and a paper bag of charcoal that Dale had already torn open.

Marie pressed the button on the remote until it clicked. Without a word, she walked toward the woodshed, climbed the steps of the summer kitchen porch, and ducked behind the wooden railing.

"Where'd she run off to now?!" Dale shouted after her, dragging the can toward the bushes. "You think you can hide?!"

The answer came from the lawn. Under the turf, a relay clicked dry. The ground shook with the rising hum of a deep-well motor. A second later, with a sharp hiss, brass heads shot up out of the grass. There was a bang like a gunshot from a hose, and a dense, ice-cold wall of water rose over the flower bed.

The first hard blast hit the metal can directly, the one Dale was holding with both hands. The impact was so strong it dented the metal inward and the can flew out of his fingers, rolled into the grass, and spilled the reeking diesel straight onto his suede shoes.

"Son of a—!" Dale yelled as the second surge caught him in the chest and knocked his cap and sunglasses off into the stinging nettles.

A second head came alive by the steps. A thick curtain of ice water caught Brandy. Her summer dress soaked through in an instant and clung to her body, her curled hair collapsing into wet strands.

"Ah! Dale, turn it off! Turn it off right now!" she shrieked, flailing her arms in the air. Her platform sandals slid out from under her on the wet dirt. Brandy landed with a smack right on the edge of the bed, on the torn-open bag of charcoal. The dry briquettes mixed with the spraying water and turned into a thick black paste that smeared across her knees, hands, and face.

"Where the hell do you shut this off, Aunt Marie?!" Dale roared, trying to force his way through the spray toward the porch. But the brass heads rotated with merciless regularity, cutting off every approach. The water from the forty-foot well was barely forty degrees. Dale sputtered, coughed, and gasped from the cold.

Then the spray reached the open SUV. Water poured in through the windows, splashing loudly inside the cab. The icy mist soaked the touchscreen, the dashboard, disappeared into the vents, and seeped into the light leather seats.

"The truck! Damn it, my truck!" Dale bellowed, forgetting the lavender, the diesel, and his so-called rights. He ran for the driver's door, slipped in the mud, slid several feet on his stomach, and slammed his shoulder into the wet tire.

Brandy, now covered in charcoal and tears, crawled after him on all fours. "Dale, let's go! She's crazy, she's going to drown us out here!"

On his third try, Dale caught the door handle, hauled himself into the sloshing cab, and hit the start button. The engine turned over after a moment.

"Get in, come on!" he shouted through the window. Brandy left one sandal stuck in the mud, threw herself into the back seat, and slammed the door.

Marie stood on the porch of the summer kitchen, the remote held tight in her pocket, watching the whole scene unfold calmly. The SUV peeled away from the house with screeching tires, its wheels flinging clots of mud onto the body panels and mirrors. Dale backed up blind, snapped a wooden post by the fence, dented the bumper against the old rain barrel, and rattled off down the dirt road. The gate stood wide open behind them.

Marie waited a few minutes, then pressed the second button on the remote. The pump hum died down, the sprinkler heads clicked quietly back into the grass. The last drops fell from the leaves, and frogs croaked in the ditch beyond the fence. The air smelled of ozone and wet earth, like after a thunderstorm.

She came down off the porch. Two branches of lavender really had snapped under the tires — she trimmed them carefully and carried them to the compost pile. The current had washed the diesel can toward the edge of the ditch, the cap gone, but the strong flow of water hadn't let the oil soak into the bed — it had all rinsed down the drain off her property. Marie hooked the stinking can with a rake, dragged it out to the path, and dropped it in the trash can. Then she shut the fence gate and slid the steel bolt across.

Her phone rang in her apron pocket half an hour later, while Marie was washing her hands at the garden spigot. The screen read Janet — her late husband's sister and Dale's mother.

"Marie!" Janet burst out the moment she picked up, so loud it rang in her ear. "Have you completely lost your mind in your old age?! The kids come out to see you to relax like decent people and you hose them down like cattle?!"

"Dale is shaking from the cold, the electronics in his truck are fried! Brandy's having a breakdown, that dress cost three hundred dollars and it's in the trash!"

"Who exactly do you think you are, out there on your father-in-law's land?!"

Marie picked up a cucumber from the counter and took a crunching bite. "Dale got his boundaries mixed up."

"What boundaries?! Don't dodge this! We're getting a lawyer, we're taking that house back, you understand? You're nobody out there!"

"The deed's in my name," Marie answered. "And I've got your buyout receipt at home in the drawer. Did you forget how seven years ago you two were running around to the courthouse begging me to buy out your shares? I paid off the loan for you while you two were down in Myrtle Beach."

"How dare you even bring up a few dollars to your own family?!"

"It's not hard," Marie said firmly. "Your son showed up here with diesel and weed killer. Wanted to flood my flower beds and turn it into his own parking lot. On someone else's property."

"If he ever shows his face at my gate again, I'll post the camera footage to the Facebook group for the whole lake community. Let everyone see what kind of trespasser you raised, and how he went scrambling off through the mud on all fours afterward."

Dead silence on the line. Janet clearly hadn't expected that kind of pushback. "What footage? You're making that up!"

"Want to check?" Marie said, a grin tugging at one corner of her mouth. "Camera's right under the eaves, with sound. So tell your eagle to stay in Hartford and dry out his seats. We're done talking."

She hung up and blocked her sister-in-law's number. Right after, she blocked Dale's and Brandy's too.

Two weeks passed. The thick August heat let up, and cool damp air began drifting up from the Ottauquechee River at night. The broken lavender bounced back quickly, blooming again in purple clusters, and the hostas along the stone path had grown wild and sprawling.

On Saturday around noon, a blue pickup belonging to her neighbor down the road, Mr. Pelletier, pulled up at the fence. Marie happened to be coming out with a basket of fresh apples. The old man cut the engine, took off his cap, and leaned against the fence.

"Afternoon, Mrs. Hanson. Your nephew, the one with the black SUV, flooded the whole neighborhood Facebook group."

Marie stopped by the gate. "What's he saying?"

"Won't quit," Mr. Pelletier chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. "Says you're a mean old aunt, hosed down the family, wouldn't let them stay at the cabin. He's asking the HOA to make you build him a parking spot behind the fence, on your own dime."

"And what did the board say?" she asked, setting the apple basket down on the fence post.

"President wrote right back in the group," the neighbor laughed. "Said if you want your own parking spot, go buy a field out past Woodstock. Or park at the tavern on the green, there's plenty of room there."

"And after that your nephew vanished from the group, profile picture and all."

"Serves him right," Marie said. She handed a few big yellow apples over the fence. "Here, for Mrs. Pelletier to try."

"Much obliged." The neighbor started up the truck and rolled slowly on down the road.

Marie went back up to the porch and sat down on the wooden step. Two quiet days stretched ahead of her. Bees hummed over the flower bed, tomatoes ripened in the greenhouse, and the fence reliably kept her world separate from other people's nerve and foolishness.