The climax arrived on Labor Day weekend during the annual Oak Creek cul-de-sac barbecue. Everyone dragged their grills to the end of the street, set up folding tables, and shared food. The atmosphere was relaxed and joyful.
I was standing near the cooler with a plate of ribs, chatting with a retired accountant named Arthur. Emily was sitting with some friends on the curb.
Then the Caldwells arrived. Harry rolled up in his golf cart while Trent walked behind him. Trent wasn’t dressed for a barbecue; he was wearing his gym’s branded rash guard, tight grappling shorts, and carrying a gym bag. He had brought an audience, too—three guys from his dojo, walking with exaggerated swagger. The casual chatter of the neighborhood began to die down.