Good Faith by Jane Smiley Page B

neighbors, who really weren’t too far away, could not be seen, and a small shopping center at the crossroads of Highway 12 and Maple Glen Road was hidden by a curve, though it was less than half a mile distant. A child, if the Burnses had one, could easily and safely ride a bike to the shopping center and home again. Selway was about five miles in one direction, and Lesterville, which had nice restaurants, two gas stations, several bed-and-breakfasts, and a short shopping street, about three miles in the other. We weren’t far from Darlington Shopping Village, either, if they were in the market for luxuries rather than necessities. In other words, the house had just about everything. I could almost but not quite see myself having lived a different, possibly wiser life, a life that would have led me to this house. I was no less capable than Marcus Burns of appreciating it, and maybe somewhat more capable of taking care of it. As a rule, I was not an envious sort of person—didn’t dare to be, in fact, because my parents had always been quick to note and punish covetousness (along with bearing false witness, taking the name of the Lord in vain, and every other commandment-breaking act)—but I thought I could have slid right into a bit of petty longing if I hadn’t been feeling very good.
    So I was standing there, feeling benevolent and avuncular, when Marcus Burns came up to me and said, in an easy and friendly voice, “What about the fence?”
    “What about it?”
    “There’s no fence.”
    “Well, no. I told Bobby to make sure you saw that the seller had rejected the fence contingency before you accepted the counter offer.” I remembered thinking that Marcus Burns could certainly afford a fence.
    “I understood the problem was with the style of fence, but that the seller agreed to a white board fence rather than a split-rail fence.”
    “The seller was more positive about a board fence, to the degree that he was willing to sell the house knowing that a board fence might someday be erected along the road, but he didn’t agree to put one up.”
    “Oh.” Burns seemed surprised.
    “I’m sorry if Bobby didn’t make the seller’s position clear. I have the papers in the car. My advice to you is just buy the house and put up the fence you want.”
    “Nuelle’s house that he’s building now has a fence, a split rail. I saw it when I drove by there a couple of days ago.”
    This was true. Gottfried’s current project had recently manifested a split-rail fence, and he could certainly have gotten the idea from Burns, though of course the style of the house was Colonial, not Queen Anne. I said, “I understand your position, Mr. Burns, but this is something I wouldn’t really bring up tomorrow at the closing. Gottfried is kind of a volatile guy. To tell you the truth, at our last closing he tried to throw the buyer out the window.”
    Burns laughed. This entire discussion had been a genial one. He was friendly, and I felt rather warmly toward him even though I’d hardly had a thing to do with him. He put his arm around my shoulders and bent his head toward mine. He said in a low voice, “Is he a big guy?”
    “Big enough when he gets his dander up.”
    “You don’t think he would be amenable to, say, arm-wrestling for a fence? We don’t plan to move in for a couple of weeks.” He smiled again. “Just a minute. Do you mind? I want to discuss this with my wife.”
    Linda Burns was standing in front of the house, her head tossed back, looking up at the façade and the long veranda that crossed it. Burns went up to her and put his arm around her, turning her away from the house and away from me. After a moment, I saw her lay her head on his shoulder. Then they turned and regarded the front of the property along the road. He stretched out his arm and made a gesture. Then they walked back up the hill to me.
    She said, “Let’s ask the builder again about the fence. I’m sure he’ll prefer to accommodate