Of course

Every morning, Ashley Corta brushed her teeth, combed her eyebrows and painted her front door before driving to work. Some days it was burnt lavender or baked pumpkin, others it was cobalt blue or rich grapefruit; but she always returned after midnight, crossing the front porch of her single story Craftsman house and unlocking the door when everything was dark and colorless.

Miss Emily lived across the street from Ashley and thought the twenty six year old looked surprised each morning to discover what color her own door was. She would emerge to spread a worn tarp on the porch, prop the door open with a brick and pry open the day’s paint can. Months of practice meant that several squats and sideways yoga stretches later, she had a new front door. On days she was running late, she painted with her right hand and ate a granola bar with her left. If she was really late, she risked her work outfit and painted in a tight skirt while her high heels waited patiently outside the splatter zone. She was thorough but did not detail around the hinges and she never glanced back from the driveway to admire her work. Miss Emily got the feeling that once the surface was cloaked in vermillion for the day, Ashley didn’t want to look at it until she had to.

The rest of the small town spent a lot of time looking at the door. Justin Parker believed that Ashley was a spy, using the colors to send messages to counterparts in the field; lots of agencies are reverting to analog methods these days, he told the fourth grade lunch table. High schoolers used the door to decide their fate; Rachel Williams went to prom with Ted Watkins because the door was blue (Cerulean) on the Wednesday before prom. Jim Taylor and Susan North had bet green or purple, respectively. Nora Neelan devoted her first summer back from college to cracking the pattern; she tracked the colors and tied them to myriad variables, including the daily temperature, Ashley’s hair style, the S&P 500 close, the specials at the mall food court. She filled notebooks and spreadsheets, pitting the palette against the numerical realities of the world and the proclivities of their town but no correlations emerged.

The adults favored a theory similar to Justin Parker’s. Its nesting strength was that it was both the most and least plausible. They sat on recliners and kitchen stools asking what if the colors had to do with the upscale clients that Ashley entertained. What if it was a signal to them, a hidden advertisement of services or availability? What if her boss (a pimp? surely she’s not freelance?) used it as a tagging method. What’s a tagging method? What if there are drugs involved, I hear she bought the house in cash. Colors like that can change a community, you know. Occasionally, the most unhappy women routed their afternoon stroll past the ‘fifty shades of Ashley’ to discuss town values, property and otherwise. If Ashley was in, she waved and smiled at the passersby.

No one, however, spent more time looking at the door than Miss Emily did. Miss Emily was president of the homeowner’s association and a part time energy consultant. Her crisp slacks and unironic tweed blazers made her seem older than she was. She worked from home in the mornings and visited client sites all over the region in the afternoons, often pulling into her driveway long after the town had finished dinner. Her clipped speech betrayed her northern origins but gave the HOA confidence that she could keep their cogs spinning under budget. The board met monthly to review their expanding financials and debate plans that would never materialize because plans require paperwork. On the rare occasion a dispute had to be settled, Miss Emily was a constitutionalist, reaching naturally to consult the by-laws. Without kids in school or a local job, Miss Emily had hoped that joining the HOA would foster friendships but she’d never clicked with the other members and years later, she still thought of them as ‘the board.’ They still thought of her as outsourced help.

Ashley’s door violated ‘Section 4: Approved Exteriors' of the by-laws and Miss Emily was frowning witness to it. Each morning, the colors crossed the street and seeped through the seals of every front facing window on Miss Emily’s home, stalking her as she made coffee and sent work emails. The first time Ashley painted the door was three weeks after move-in. Miss Emily was concerned: arctic teal would never match the taupe shutters. The lollipop red that appeared the next morning devastated her. But on the day Miss Emily lost her biggest client, the citrine yellow winked encouragingly at her and when her brother called to say that her nephew had been born, she toasted the forest green. Slowly, it mattered less to Miss Emily if the colors matched. But she never warmed to her new neighbor. Miss Emily thought Ashley’s smile was too wide, her clothes too bright and her wave too ready. She had a well-tamed energy that made Miss Emily uneasy and she resented Ashley’s cheerful nods to the passersby who eyed her door. It frustrated her that Ashley could not see them sneering, shunning her for a rumor they nursed.

Ashley had two encounters with the HOA but she was not present at the first and the board was not present at the second. The first was an internal board meeting several months after she had moved in - and ignored three desist letters regarding her paint jobs. They decided on a monthly Exteriors Fee if Ashley continued to flout their demands. Miss Emily consulted precedent to arrive at a fair percentage but as she looked over the proposed calculations, done in her own neat hand, she shook her head. She felt sure that neither letters nor fees would keep Ashley from painting but Miss Emily couldn’t take that chance. She looked up at the expectant board’s faces and put down her pen. Surprised by the uncharacteristic veto, the board begrudgingly agreed to take no immediate action and revisit the matter at a later time. But matters require paperwork so they never did; no more letters were sent and no fees were imposed.

The second encounter occurred eighteen months later, in September. Miss Emily answered the doorbell to find Ashley standing in a pastel blue dress and thin bomber jacket. She clutched a bulky black notebook in one hand and dangled a single paint can from the other. The street was dark and under the small porch light Ashley’s face was rounder than Miss Emily had remembered. Hey, I don’t mean to startle you out of the blue. Do you have a moment to speak? It was 9pm on a Friday, of course she had a moment to speak. Of course, do you want to come in? Miss Emily had never strung those words together for anyone in the town. That’s ok, I can’t stay long. Of course she has plans. Of course, what can I do for you? Ashley smiled. I have something for the HOA and something for you, too. Eyebrows arched, Miss Emily took the notebook that Ashley held out. Several printed documents were sandwiched between its pages. There’s a letter in there for the HOA about my plans to sell my house. The realtors have showings set for next week. I’m leaving tonight but they’ll take care of everything and liaise with the board from here on out. Before Miss Emily could respond, Ashley pressed on, frankly but firmly. And there’s a check in there for you. It should cover the Exteriors Fees that I never paid. I heard the amount, I’ve kept track in the notebook. It comes to about twenty thousand dollars. That check is for you, not the HOA. Um, I heard what you did and I appreciate your kindness. Miss Emily drew breath to protest but Ashley looked down and began fixing her hair as she continued. I’ve also included my employer’s name and contact in case you want to...and a few copies of official pay stubs. I want you to feel good, you know, about where the money comes from and not worry. I know some people have questions about my employment and I don’t want you to...worry. Discomfort crowded the two women on the porch as they looked at each other. Miss Emily thought of the many things she wanted to ask and the many things Ashley might need. So she nodded and said, of course. Ashley smiled broadly and started to back away. Oh, and this! She thrust the paint can forward at the last moment. It’s a #303 Slate Grey. I have a lot. You probably don’t need it but just in case. Before getting into her car, Ashley turned once to wave at Miss Emily.

On Monday, as Miss Emily locked her front door, she noticed a message scrawled in white spray paint at eye level: slut money. Her face burned with surprise and her heart thrashed as she glanced over her shoulder at the quiet street. Neighbors would wake up soon and she was late for her meeting. Miss Emily frowned and considered her options - dish soap, detergent or rubbing alcohol. Probably detergent. She hurried to the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Sitting next to the detergent was the #303 paint can. She paused and stood slowly. That morning, Miss Emily fixed her hair in the bathroom mirror, put Ashley’s bulky notebook into her purse and painted her front door before driving to work.