When neighbors stopped by, she was always gracious. When asked outright, she would say, sweetly, wringing her hands, “I do worry about mischief, but I’m only one old woman.” “Thankfully, I’ve learned to keep busy. Perhaps they will learn from my industry, too.” Her tone trembled with innocence, masking any other intent.
Soon, the vandalism grew even more. Every Friday, maybe marking the weekend, the boys staged something bigger: chalk drawings on the wooden floors and walls of houses, or garbage bins toppled into the middle of streets. Neighbors whispered, “These boys are a menace.” Still, Magnolia tended her roses and plucked mint placidly as if nothing could alter her rhythm.