What was her husband’s paisley-patterned tie doing here, tucked away in a semi-transparent box in the corner of their neighbor’s garage?

Viola only noticed the box when she dropped the one Mistral, their neighbor organizing the garage sale, had asked her to fetch and carry outside. The box had slipped from her hands, causing the inflated beach ball on top to roll directly against the semi-transparent box tucked away in the corner.

She barely noticed the semi-transparent box as she leaned down to fetch the beach ball. She was in a hurry to get back outside to Mistral’s front yard, where her husband Richard and a few neighborhood friends were gathered. The garage sale was transforming into an evening of drinks and Mistral had already lit the BBQ. She could hear Richard’s enthusiastic Cheers! accompanied by the clinking of cold beer bottles. She had been enjoying herself, a feeling she never thought she would experience again after that dreadful afternoon nearly three years ago.

It was only when she straightened up, ready to leave the garage, that a glimpse of the fabric caught her eye. She recognized that paisley pattern.

While preparing for the garage sale, Mistral had likely removed items, forgetting about this box tucked further back. Viola pulled it out, placed it on an empty shelf, and lifted the lid for a closer look.

She rummaged through the box and grabbed the tie. Hesitantly, she turned it over to check the label. If it was in Spanish, it would confirm this was Richard’s tie. They had bought it during a vacation in Spain when, unexpectedly, they were invited to a formal dinner. The limited selection in the tourist city had left them with this one tie.

The label read, “Alma del Torro, hecho en España.” Her heart dropped. Her hands trembled as she examined the various items in the box more closely. Yes, this was Mistral’s memento box.

She had known Mistral for close to ten years, starting off as friendly neighbors and gradually becoming best friends. They had shared many bottles of wine while gossiping about their neighbors, work and relationships. However, it was the stories of Mistral’s many sexual escapades with mostly young men during her husband’s frequent business trips to Miami, that stood out the most.

Viola enjoyed Mistral’s hilarious and sometimes cringeworthy sex stories. Mistral craved attention and loved sharing her tales afterward. She brought her stories to life with stolen mementos. Her collection included socks, belts, T-shirts, the occasional boxer shorts, and even a spandex thong from a particularly active beach vacation.

Their friendship hadn’t been just laughs and good times. Mistral had been there for her and Richard from the very first moment on that horrible afternoon, all through these past years.

It had never crossed her mind that Mistral and her husband would… Would what? What did the tie prove? She shook her head in disbelief. She would have to ask her husband, ask Mistral.

As she prepared to put the box back, she suddenly spotted a mustard-yellow polo shirt with a red logo buried beneath other items. She grabbed the shelves to keep from falling. Her ears rang. Fighting against a wave of nausea, she reached into the box and pulled out the polo shirt. She recognized the hideous yellow logo of the cement truck company. An image of that afternoon flashed before her eyes: the bare-chested truck driver who had run around in a panic-driven frenzy while her son… Could this be that truck driver’s shirt?

That afternoon, three years ago, Viola was in the kitchen while her seven-year-old son, Timothy, played alone in the yard. Fascinated by the workers constructing Mistral’s new patio, Timothy would sit on the wall ledge and watch them operate heavy equipment, drive the tractor, and prepare the soil for the concrete floor that would be poured.

Alarmed by Mistral’s hysterical screams Viola had rushed outside to find Mistral standing at the wall, looking bewildered. The only words she could manage were, “There’s been an accident. Timothy..” as she glanced back and forth between Viola and the mustard-yellow cement truck with red markings parked in Mistral’s driveway. A bare-chested man was screaming into a mobile phone.

Viola started to run towards the cement truck, but the truck driver intercepted her, throwing in his full weight. She only remembered fragments of what he was saying, “Wall… Climbed up ladder…. Slipped…. Fell.. Barrel.. Inside….It’s turned off now. Stay here, lady, stay here.” As the horror of what happened to her son set in, all the air was knocked out of her. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed to the ground.

Richard appeared. As did ambulances, police cars and fire trucks. A plan was agreed on. A plan which included lifting Viola up from the ground, and carrying her into the house.

Behind the closed door, she heard the sounds of the truck, the men shouting and then, the eerie quiet, she could only assume because her son’s body had appeared from the barrel. There was no sound of traffic passing by, even the birds were quiet. A few seconds passed, and the men got back into action, recovering the remains of Timothy’s battered body from the thick cement paste, placing him on a gurney and transporting his remains away. The funeral had been with a closed casket.

Mistral stayed with them during those first days, attending to the door, calls, and messages. She ensured Viola and Richard drank, ate, and took their sleeping pills. Weeks passed, yet Mistral continued to visit daily. She ensured they had groceries, attended to household chores, and tried to instill a fragile sense of normalcy by engaging them in conversation. Mistrals continuing presence had comforted her in a way that Richard couldn’t. The grief had been so heavy and all encompassing, it had sucked all oxygen out of their marriage.

As time passed, Mistral encouraged her to start cooking simple meals again. Mistral entertained her with the latest gossip and eventually resumed sharing stories of her bizarre extramarital affairs. Listening to the tales of Mistral’s carefree life offered Viola a moment of escape from her own grief. Gradually, she began to notice the world around her again—the flowers in her garden, the chirping of birds. She even started sharing recipes she found online with Mistral.

Though her grief remained a constant presence, it was accompanied by the emergence of a parallel path where fragments of normal life began to reappear. On this secondary road, fragile experiences of lightness and reserved laughter became possible. Amidst the gathered group of neighbors at the garage sale today, she had even felt a precious moment of joy.

She took another look at the tie and the polo shirt. A new memory struck her. In the weeks leading up to the accident, Mistral would come over and share her escapades as soon as the workers constructing her new patio, left. Mistral had been ecstatic: the men were well-built, sweaty, young, and eager.

Viola gasped as the realization hit her. She stormed out of the garage, screaming, and headed straight for Mistral.

Mistral, taken aback, stood paralyzed. A neighbor stepped between them just in time to prevent Viola from lunging at Mistral.

“Why do you have these?” She yelled at Mistral while waving the memento’s in the air. “You with your sick keepsakes!”

“You!” she turned to Richard, throwing the tie to his feet. “You fucked her!”

She stifled a sob as she held up the yellow polo shirt.

“She was fucking the cement truck driver. That’s why the truck was left unattended. Our son died for a quicky!”

Her husband went pale.

Viola turned to Mistral. “You and your pathetic need for attention! Timothy died because of you!” Viola continued screaming, violently lunging at Mistral.

Someone had called the police. An officer dragged her towards the police car. She struggled against his grip. He shoved her into the back seat of the car where she was left alone, pounding on the window, screaming.

Thoughts kept circling in her mind. Timothy was dead because of Mistral. Mistral fucked her husband. Timothy was dead because of Mistral.

She looked at the group of people standing in the front yard on the cement patio. The BBQ was on, they were talking with the police officers as if this was just another community policing gathering. A thirst for revenge seared through Viola’s body, lighting up her brain and her senses. Her son had suffocated in a thick paste, his body mangled and mutilated, whereas Mistral was standing there, blatantly flirting with police officers.

She glared at Mistral through the searing heat rising from the BBQ grill. Through the shimmering hot air, Mistral’s unscathed body appeared distorted. A cold shiver ran down Viola’s spine as her eyes locked onto the burning flames. Her thoughts began to gather. She hadn’t felt this clearheaded in a long time. Once her plan was fully formed, she exhaled. Satisfied, she finally leaned back.

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