136 The Meadow and cheese. And, as I thought about what was on tomorrow, if it was more Tom and Jerry, a short shout sounded outside. It was almost a quick horn, a tight staccato of a blare that froze us at the table. Mom held her forkful of pancakes between her and the plate. Dad cocked his head, and for the first time, I realized he kinda looked like Oscar; even his hair resembled our roosters’ spiked comb. My brother kept eating away, oblivious, happy. A different voice rang out in our collective silence, penetrated our walls and windows, shot around our table and legs, our last name, “Hansons!” For the second time this morning, which was twice more than usual, we ventured to the front yard, moving as one, our hands and arms and legs touching, and stood on the steps, looking at our neighbors. They both were on their knees in front of their decapitated tulips. They both had bathrobes on of pale blue. I noticed that on each one was a name written in cursive red script: Dan and Jessica. She held a coffee mug by her side, empty. He cradled a plastic watering can. I couldn’t believe how upset they were; their tulips never looked better. That day, all day, I worried about a counterstrike, some sort of retaliation. I looked out the front window during every commercial, making a circuit with my eyes across our driveway, our green grass, the flowerpots on the steps, the small tree in the corner, our mailbox, and then their chain link fence. Adam said he had plans to go over to a friend’s house tonight, to work on a school project. Of course, Mom and Dad, who were suspicious of him, immediately denied that request. They asked him over and over again, throughout the morning and afternoon, did he do it, where did he put the tulip petals, etc. At one point, they cornered him at the kitchen table, just after lunch, and demanded that he talk, but he only shrugged. He didn’t even seem that mad that he couldn’t escape tonight.
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