Arlene Jefferson Lee (F)

Just as Arlie checked the pot of water on the stove, the alarm connected to the front gate buzzer sounded. She set the small bag of shrimp in the sink and dried her hands on a dish towel.  

At the roll top desk in the dining room, Arlie toggled through the security screens to the entrance camera. UPS. The blonde woman looked up at the camera and held out a smallish package.

Arlie flipped on the intercom. “Thanks, Teri. Just leave it in the hopper. Have a good one.”

“Okie dokie, Arlie. You too.”

Before Arlie could take a step toward the kitchen, the upstream view filled the screen. She leaned in. Just above the sea grass she saw a head with a cap pulled low moving along the creek.

Harlan Deeds headed home. His place—his family’s home—was the next one up Temperance Creek. Arlie shook her head. Harlan was locally famous for penning up all his hogs just before the eight-foot surge came rushing in in ’89. Every last one drown.

His mama when she spoke of him would always refer to him as that boy. “That boy is gone out fishing.” “That boy will be back from town later.” “I’m sending that boy over for some flour.”

That boy is nearly 40 now snickered Arlie. But he does have a knack for fishing.

Back in the kitchen, Arlie pulled her hair into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. She dropped the shrimp in the boiling water and took the pot off the stove.

After 2 minutes she scooped the shrimp into a small serving bowl with cucumber slices and diced cherry tomatoes. She stirred in a tablespoon of red wine vinegar.

As Arlie was wiping down the counter after her meal, the rear house camera alerted. She walked into the dining room and peered at the screen. Pelicans. Five of them on the dock. She laughed. No reason to get her hackles up, they couldn’t read the warning signs.

Might as well do a camera check since she was there.

Front gate, turn left, turn right—highway traffic light. Back to front view.

Barn camera, zoom to water trough, turn right to house, turn left to drive.

House front, left to barn, center to drive, right to tool shed.

House rear, left to pine stand, center to dock, right to garden.

Dock camera, left upstream, center across creek to Barker’s Hummock, right downstream.

Last Labor Day at Arlie’s annual picnic, Lydia Cole and Kiki Banks spent a good portion of the afternoon sipping rum and cokes and spying on the neighbors.

Every time Arlie came into the house, she could hear the women laughing or fussing about the action outdoors.

“Y’all are going to bust that thing.”

“Arlie, this is better than a week of Real Housewives.”

“Y’all are just being trashy.”

They clinked their glasses at her and turned back to the screen.

One year, Wilson Gore after several rounds of an informal bourbon tasting contest lit into Arlie over the security system.

“Dammit, Arlie, why you’d spend all this fool money on nonsense? You got a gun, I seen you shoot. Pretty damn stupid.”

“Shut up, Wilson.”

“Arlie, you got no sense. Hell, get some damn dogs, woman.”

Arlie grabbed a fistful of his t-shirt. “I’m not going to be a victim! I’m not!" She let go of his shirt. "I’m not going to be a prisoner in my own home.” 

Lyman 2022