Free Doubleback: A Novel by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page A

take care of my garden. But Fouad just bought a new Dodge Ram, and unless he’d entered it in a demolition derby, this wasn’t his truck.
    Three Hispanic men climbed out. Landscapers are a familiar summer sight on the North Shore, even on a holiday weekend. Most are probably illegals, working long hours taking care of peoples’ lawns for minimum wage or less. To them, we are “rich gabachos ... northerners.”
    The men gathered at the edge of my driveway and stooped to examine something at the curb. From my vantage point all I could make out was green material. Speaking in Spanish, they gestured excitedly, then looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back. They bent to pick up the object. What they were doing wasn’t uncommon—I’d often see people cruising around the North Shore, scavenging perfectly good items other people had thrown away. I couldn’t blame them.
    Until I realized what they were carrying to the truck. It was my patio umbrella—the one I bought last year. The one I’d asked Rachel to put away a few days ago. Put away. Not throw away. She must have misunderstood. I dropped the newspaper and hurried to the curb.
    “Hey...” I waved my hands. “No, no. That’s mine. Sorry. You can’t have it.”
    The two men frowned but kept hold of the umbrella.
    “The umbrella. Es lo mi !” My Spanish is practically nonexistent. “It’s new!” What was the frigging word for “new” in Spanish? Nouvelle in French. My father was right, after all. He’d told me to take Spanish, but my mother insisted on French. Damn them both. Where was Rachel? She was in Spanish Four.
    The men’s faces remained impassive. They were gaming me. They had to know, even if they didn’t understand the words, that I didn’t want them to take it. Still, they looked away and slid the umbrella into the bed of the truck.
    I went over to the pickup and grabbed one end of the umbrella. So much for my give-me-your-poor-and-oppressed compassion.
    The Mexicans talked excitedly among themselves. One of them turned to me and shook his finger. “ No no, es de nostros .”
    “It wasn’t supposed to be thrown away. Muchacha es mistaken .” I tried to slide the umbrella out of the truck, but as one end fell to the ground, one of the men snatched the other end and started to pull.
    “No!”
    Another man shouted at the one who’d grabbed the umbrella. Umbrella man shouted back. From their tone, I knew they were arguing, trying to decide what to do. I couldn’t tell whether Umbrella man was trying to placate his buddies or wanted to give me a hard time. I kept hold of my end, and he kept hold of his. A tug of war ensued.
    “Come on, give it back!” I said. “ Es mi !”
    He pulled. I pulled. If both of us kept it up, the umbrella might come apart. Thankfully, Luke chose that moment to appear at the end of the street. He slowed as he jogged to the driveway. Confusion swam across his face.
    “Luke, help!”
    He was breathing heavily, and sweat poured down his cheeks. “What the hell is going on?”
    Between tugging on the umbrella and trying to keep my balance, I tried to explain. I didn’t get too far, but he must have gotten the point because suddenly his voice rang out, louder than mine.
    “Stop. Dejala ya! ”
    Everybody froze, including me.
    “This belongs to the senora,” he said in a more reasonable tone. “ Dejala, por favor. La sombrilla es de la senora, ” he went on in perfect Spanish.
    “¿Y eso? Porqué estaba votado en la basura?” The man playing tug of war with me asked.
    Luke turned to me. “Why was it on the curb? With the garbage?”
    “It was Rachel,” I panted. “She threw it out by mistake.”
    Luke turned back. “ Fué una equivocación. Her daughter didn’t understand. Su hija se equivocó . La señora no quería votarla . She doesn’t want to get rid of it.”
    The man at the other end of the umbrella shot me one of those if-looks-could-kill glances but let go. I lost my balance but held on. I