The monument had to be less than five years old because it had been five years since Bethany had last visited Few Oaks Park in Multioak and the monument had not been there then.

               “What is this supposed to be?” asked Grayson, Bethany’s teenage son. Bethany thought of Grayson as a typical teenage boy, but also had to admit that her experience with the current crop of teenage boys was limited to Grayson and his close friends, so maybe she wasn’t the best judge of what was or was not typical of teenage boys.

               “It’s a monument,” said Aaron, his gregarious face reddened by the cold. Aaron was Bethany’s husband. And maybe he didn’t have a gregarious face. Maybe he was just a gregarious man who, therefore, used his face to gregarious ends. He sold golf shoes for a living.

               “A monument to what?” asked Grayson.

               “There’s a plaque,” said Bethany from what she assumed must be, based on the position of the plaque mounted on a waist-high pedestal set into the concrete slab, the front of the monument.

               “What does it say?” asked Aaron as if it weren’t clear to him that Bethany was about to read aloud from the plaque.
               Bethany read aloud from the plaque. “This monument is dedicated on behalf of appreciative citizens of Multioak to the contributions to local literature made by Multioak native and lifelong resident Avery Weber.”

               “Never heard of him,” said Aaron.

               “Neither have I,” said Grayson.

               “Me neither,” said Bethany. She looked up at the monument, hoping this new information might help her solve the puzzle of what the monument was intended to depict. It didn’t.

               “So these names,” said Grayson, pointing at the monument’s circular brick base as he wandered around toward its back side. “Who are they, then?”

               “What names?” asked Aaron.

               “On some of the bricks,” said Grayson.

               Bethany stepped closer to the monument and stooped to look at the bricks, her hands nestled in the deep pockets of her coat, her right hand like a fox in its den and her left hand like a rabbit in its burrow. Some of the bricks, as her son had said, were etched with names. One brick read, “Eamon Leid.” Another read, “The Sobel Brothers.” A third read, “Hope and Brandon Dewis.” Bethany knew Hope Dewis, sort of. She didn’t know her well enough to know her husband’s name was Brandon. And she didn’t know her well enough to know she was a big enough fan of this Avery Weber author to contribute enough money to the erection of this monument to get her name on a brick in its base. Because that had to be how this worked, right? Whoever contributed above some dollar-amount threshold got their names on a brick? That’s what Bethany assumed. That’s usually how these things worked.

Bethany explained her theory to Grayson as he continued to stroll away from her around the monument, perusing the bricks for any names he might recognize. Bethany didn’t think he knew anyone who would contribute money to the erection of a monument to anyone or anything anywhere. But maybe he’d spot the names of a friend’s parents or grandparents. Maybe he’d spot the name of one of his teachers. Maybe he’d spot the name of a TV news anchor. Did Grayson know the names of any TV news anchors? Was that sort of knowledge typical of a teenage boy anymore? Had it ever been?

“Mom?” said Grayson. He had stopped on the opposite side of the monument from where Bethany now stood.

“What?” asked Bethany.

“Dad?” said Grayson.

Aaron, who had lost interest in the monument, was leaning on the plaque while reading his phone. “What?” he said, looking up in response to something in Grayson’s tone.

“I thought you said you guys never heard of Avery Weber,” said Grayson.

“We haven’t,” said Bethany.

“Then why are our names on one of these bricks?”

Bethany and Aaron circled the monument from opposite directions to flank their son and examine the brick in question. The brick read, “Bethany, Aaron, and Grayson.”

Bethany looked at Aaron, who held his hands up as if she had leveled a shotgun at him. “I have no idea,” he said. “I had nothing to do with this. I should be looking at you accusingly.”

“But you aren’t,” said Bethany. “Which means you know, in your soul, that I had nothing to do with this either.”

Aaron rested a hand on Grayson’s shoulder. “Is this a prank, Son? Did you do this? Is that why you led us over here and acted so interested in the names and happened to be the one to spot this particular brick?”

“No,” said Grayson. “I swear. Would that even be funny? As a prank?”

Aaron shrugged. “A lot of what you and your friends think is funny doesn’t seem funny to me.”

Bethany had to agree with Aaron on that point.

“Well, it wasn’t me,” said Grayson. “My friends and I wouldn’t find this that funny. Definitely not funny enough to spend money on it.”

This was a compelling argument. And Bethany thought she knew Grayson well enough to recognize when he was suppressing amusement that he would only allow to spill forth later in the presence of his likeminded peers. He was not doing that now.

“So someone else did this,” said Bethany.

“As a prank, though?” asked Aaron.

“Or a mistake,” said Bethany. “Maybe they mistakenly got the impression that we like Avery Weber books.”

“Maybe’s it’s a coincidence,” said Grayson. “Maybe there’s a different Bethany, Aaron, and Grayson who really do like Avery Weber books.”

“That would be quite a coincidence,” said Aaron. “I feel like we would have heard of another family with our exact first names living in our same town.”

“Maybe they’re not a family,” said Grayson. “Maybe they’re just a group of friends. Maybe they’re, like, a little Avery Weber book club.”

“I don’t think that’s very likely,” said Bethany. “Actually, I think it’s very unlikely.”

“So you think this brick means us?” asked Grayson.

“Yes,” said Bethany. “I do.”

“And you’re OK with that?” asked Grayson.

“No,” said Bethany. “I’m not.”

That evening at home, Bethany tried to call the Multioak Parks Department to get information about the monument to Avery Weber, but it was well after business hours and no one answered, which she realized she should have foreseen, and which she took as evidence that she was too worked up over something that was not ultimately that important. So she would try again the next day. But the issue continued to irk her.

“I thought you said it wasn’t ultimately that important,” said Aaron. He was standing at the open fridge feeling each can of diet cola to find the coldest one.

“It isn’t that important, ultimately,” said Bethany. “But it still irks me.”

Grayson came into the kitchen bearing a bowl bearing no traces of whatever he’d eaten out of it, if anything. “Are you worried Avery Weber is a bad writer?” he asked. “Maybe we could read one of his books. And then, if we like it, we might actually kind of like that our names are on the monument and we didn’t even have to pay for it.”

“No,” said Bethany. “How good of a writer Avery Weber happens to be is beside the point.”

“What’s the point, then?” asked Grayson. “We just don’t like the monument? Because we can’t tell what it is? Because it doesn’t look like anything we recognize?”

“Your mom doesn’t like it when other people make decisions for her,” said Aaron. He had two cans of pop in his hands. He held them to his face, one against his right cheek and one against his left cheek. This, apparently, was the final test to determine the coldest can.

“Who likes having other people make decisions for them?” asked Bethany.

“Lots of people,” said Aaron. “Many of my customers, for example. They regularly want me to decide which golf shoes to get. Some of them also want me to decide if they should get golf shoes at all.”

“And let me guess,” said Bethany. “They should?”

Aaron smiled and returned the pop can in his left hand to the fridge, closed the refrigerator door, and cracked open the can in his right hand, taking a long sip. “Hmm,” he said. “I thought it would taste colder.”

“It’s been out of the fridge for a few seconds longer than the ones still in there now,” said Grayson. “And you held it against your warm face.”

Aaron looked with regret at the refrigerator full of cans of pop now slightly colder than his chosen can.

“I don’t like the presumption,” said Bethany. “That’s all.”

“The presumption that we’d like Avery Weber’s books?” asked Grayson.

“The presumption that we’d want our names on the monument,” said Bethany. “For any reason. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Because he might do something bad?” asked Grayson. “Because he might have views or beliefs we don’t agree with? Because he might be annoying?”

“No,” said Bethany. “Because even if someone does something for me that they think I’d like, I want to be asked first.”

“What about a surprise party?” asked Grayson.

“I hate surprise parties,” said Bethany.

“Even the one we threw for you two birthdays ago?” asked Grayson.

“Um,” said Bethany.

“Yes,” said Aaron, clapping his son on the shoulder. “Your mom hated that.”

The next morning, Bethany got the Multioak Parks Department on the phone while she was on her lunch break at work. She had hyped herself up to hack her way through the menus of a hostile automated answering system, so she was surprised when a woman named Polly picked up after the first ring. After Bethany explained her problem, Polly told her she couldn’t answer any questions about how Bethany’s name or Aaron’s name or Grayson’s name had come to be etched into a brick in the base of the monument to Avery Weber in Few Oaks Park. That had all been arranged by the Multioak Local Authors Support Group.

“That makes it sound like it’s a group of people supporting each other because of the shared trauma of being local authors,” said Bethany.

“As I understand it, that’s not what it primarily is,” said Polly. “It’s just a group of people who want to support local authors. And while many of them are local authors who have experienced personal difficulties as a result of their lack of success, not all of them are.”

“If you can’t tell me how our names got on the monument,” said Bethany, “can you at least tell me how to get our names off the monument?”

“You’ll have to talk to the Multioak Local Authors Support Group about that too,” said Polly. “All we did was give them space and permission to erect the monument once they’d filled out all the forms and submitted plans. All we can do now is direct you to them.”

“Fine,” said Bethany. “How do I get in touch with them?”

Polly gave her two phone numbers. “Before you go,” said Polly, “can I have your name, address, and phone number as well?”

“Sure,” said Bethany. She complied with Polly’s request, then asked, “Why do you need them?”

“In case the monument is mysteriously defaced,” said Polly. “Like, let’s say you and your family’s names are found to have been scratched off the brick. This way we’ll know the first place to send the authorities.”

“But they’re our names!” said Bethany, louder than she’d intended. She had been secretly planning on doing exactly what Polly described if and when she was met with the resistance she anticipated from the Multioak Local Authors Support Group.

“It doesn’t matter if they’re your names,” said Polly. “The monument is now the property of the city of Multioak. Do you think Officer David K. Wolst, were he still alive, should be allowed to bulldoze the playground equipment in Officer David K. Wolst Memorial Park just because the park has his name on it?”

“Well, someone should,” said Bethany. “That equipment is in terrible shape.”

Polly said nothing.

“And tell me something else,” said Bethany. “What’s that monument even supposed to be of? We couldn’t figure out what it’s supposed to be.”

Polly continued to say nothing.

Bethany, sensing that Polly was affronted and about to hang up on her, hung up on Polly first. Or maybe they hung up on each other simultaneously. There was no way to know.

As Bethany dialed the first phone number Polly had given her, she wondered if she should wait until she felt less heated before she spoke to a representative from the Multioak Local Authors Support Group. She had just decided she probably should when a man’s voice answered. “Who’s this?”

“I’m Bethany,” said Bethany. “Are you connected with the Multioak Local Authors Support Group?”

“I am,” said the man. “I’m Jessup Hower. I’m a co-leader of the group. What can I do for you?”

“I have a few questions about the Avery Weber monument in Few Oaks Park.” Said Bethany.

“Did you say your name is ‘Bethany?’” asked Jessup.

“Yes,” said Bethany.

“Your name’s on the monument!” said Jessup. “Lucky you! I couldn’t afford it.”

“I didn’t pay for it,” said Bethany. “Somebody put my name and my husband’s name and my son’s name on the monument without asking our permission or even notifying us.”

“Yes,” said Jessup. “They did it on your behalf. So lucky!”

“No, that’s not lucky,” said Bethany. “That’s wrong. That’s impolite. And it’s…illegal.” She wished she hadn’t hesitated before she said the word “illegal.” Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.

“It’s not illegal,” said Jessup. He was full of confidence.

“It’s morally wrong, though,” said Bethany in a way that she hoped did not sound like the retreat she felt it to be.

“I’m afraid we disagree,” said Jessup. “What are you upset about? You don’t like Avery Weber’s books?”

“I’m not going through all of this with you,” said Bethany. “I don’t owe you an explanation. What do I need to do to get our names taken off of the monument?”

“You can’t,” said Jessup. “It can’t be done.”

“Yes, it can,” said Bethany. “Just replace that brick with another one.”

“That proves you know nothing about monument construction,” said Jessup. “An attempt to replace even one brick could result in a complete collapse.”

“Then remove our names from the brick,” said Bethany. “Use a tool to scratch them out in a way that doesn’t look sloppy.”

“No,” said Jessup. “That would be an insult to the donor who paid enough to put your names on the brick. And an insult to Avery Weber, the very person the monument is intended to honor. Instead of being a monument entirely to honor him, it would become a monument mostly to honor him but also to partially dishonor him. It would become a monument that says, ‘Here’s a bunch of people who appreciate Avery Weber’s contributions to local literature and three people who do not.’”

“But that’s not my fault!” said Bethany.

“OK,” said Jessup. “I’m not interested in who’s at fault. I’m interested only in preserving the structural integrity and purpose of the monument.”

Bethany, stymied at every turn, thought about how, on top of everything else, this was also ruining her entire lunch break. “Tell me who it was,” said Bethany. “At least tell me that much. Tell me who asked to have our names put on that brick.”

“I can’t do that either,” said Jessup. “It was an anonymous donor.”

Bethany was aghast. “So they didn’t want their name connected to the monument but they had no problem using our names?”

“It’s impossible to know their motives for sure,” said Jessup. “But I don’t think either of us have enough information to speculate with any degree of certainty.”

Bethany hung up. She was pretty sure that she and Jessup had not hung up simultaneously, but she could not be certain. She wished she had asked Jessup what the monument was supposed to look like before upsetting him, but now it was too late. She decided to take a long lunch break and decided not to ask permission to do so.

When Bethany got home from work, she found Grayson sitting on the couch in the living room reading an Avery Weber book called Last Known Surpriser. It was a slim volume with an unattractive cover attesting to its self-publishedness.

“Why do you have that?” asked Bethany.

“To find out if maybe I don’t mind having my name on that monument,” said Grayson. “I got it from the library. They have a whole shelf for local authors, but it’s mostly Avery Weber.”

Bethany paused for long enough that Grayson was able to intuit her disapproval.

“I know you said it doesn’t matter to you how good of a writer he is,” said Grayson. “But it matters to me.”

“And how good is he?” asked Bethany.

“I don’t know,” said Grayson. “I don’t really like fiction.”

Bethany’s phone rang and she fished it out of her purse. The call was not coming from one of her contacts, but something about the number displayed on the screen seemed familiar so she answered.

“Is this Bethany? Who doesn’t want her name on the Avery Weber monument in Few Oaks Park?” The woman spoke quickly and in a pointy font, somehow.

“Yes,” said Bethany. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Riley Caffer.” She coughed twice. “I’m co-leader of the Multioak Local Authors Support Group.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bethany. “That’s why I recognized your number. The Multioak Parks Department gave me your number and your co-leader’s number, but I didn’t know which to call or if it mattered so I only called the other one.”

“I heard,” said Riley. “I heard all about it. Jessup told me.”

“Are you calling to tell me you can get our names off of that brick?” asked Bethany.

“No,” said Riley. “But I’m offering you a chance to balance things out.”

“Balance things out?” asked Bethany. “What does that mean?”

“Well, let’s just say that not all of us in the Multioak Local Authors Support Group were on board with the monument to Avery Weber,” said Riley. “Let’s just say that several of us do not appreciate Avery Weber’s contributions to local literature.”

“OK,” said Bethany. “Does that mean you’re going to get the monument taken down?”

“Even better,” said Riley. “We’re actually working on erecting a monument to express our lack of appreciation for Avery Weber’s contributions to local literature and we were wondering if you’d be willing to donate enough to get your names on a brick in the monument’s base.”

“No,” said Bethany.

“But it would be so impactful,” said Riley. “Having your name on ours would, in a way, be like erasing your name from the other one, because people would know that it was erected after the first one, so your names on ours would be more recent than your names on that one, so it would be clear that our monument represents your more recent feelings about Avery Weber’s contributions to local literature.”

“I have no feelings about Avery Weber’s contributions to local literature!” shouted Bethany.

Riley said nothing. For what felt like the dozenth time today, Bethany had hurt a stranger’s feelings over the phone.

Bethany decided to experiment with a little contrition to see if that might lead to a better outcome. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”

“So you won’t pay to have your names on the monument?” asked Riley.

“No,” said Bethany. She said it so nicely, though.

“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to see if any anonymous parties donate on your behalf again,” said Polly.

“No!” screamed Bethany, not nicely at all. And then hurriedly, as an afterthought, she asked, “And what’s that monument supposed to be?”

But it was possible that, having perhaps already hung up, Riley didn’t hear it.

Even though it was too cold to sit on the porch, that’s what Bethany did. Aaron and Grayson were asleep, or at least in bed. Bethany did not turn on the porch light. She was in the mood for deep shadows. She brooded in one of the two black plastic patio chairs, her knees bent so her feet, shod in unlaced boots, were crossed at the ankles beneath her seat. This had been, she knew without a doubt, the highest percentage of a day she’d ever spent thinking about monuments. Which was not a good feeling. She didn’t like thinking about how much she’d been thinking about monuments. It did not feel like a day well spent. And it wasn’t like days spent performing tedious chores where at least, at the ends of those days, the tedious chores have been accomplished and tomorrow promises no tedious chores or fewer tedious chores or different tedious chores. Bethany fully expected to spend the following day also thinking about monuments, maybe immediately breaking today’s monument-fixation record: a grim prospect.

Movement on the sidewalk in front of her house drew Bethany’s attention. A coat with the collar pulled high floated along with a floppy stocking cap hovering just above. The coat and hat turned down the front walk and approached the porch at a relaxed pace. As they drew closer, Bethany discerned a black cloud within the coat and hat, not body-shaped, lumpy and inert, like a frozen frame from footage of smoke from a structure fire.

The coat-and-hat-clad cloud stopped at the porch steps and said, “Mind if I sit with you?”

“What are you?” asked Bethany.

“I’m a local author.”

“Let me guess,” said Bethany. “Avery Weber?”

“Yes,” said Avery Weber.

“Sure,” said Bethany. “Have a seat.”

The local author ascended the steps and moved to the other patio chair, occupying it, although Bethany wasn’t sure she’d call what Avery Weber was doing “sitting.”

When he didn’t speak for a while, Bethany looked at Avery Weber sideways and said, “Are you here to talk to me about the monuments?”

“No,” said Avery Weber. “I’m here to author.”

“How are you going to do that?” asked Bethany.

“Very locally,” said Avery Weber.

To Bethany, this sounded essentially meaningless, but she was relieved that this thing—this local author—didn’t intend to impose more monument talk on her. Nor, it now seemed as more and more time passed in silence, any talk at all. Bethany found herself forgetting that Avery Weber was present, but then also never being startled upon re-noticing his presence. He didn’t make much of an impression. Didn’t make much of a contribution to Bethany’s experience of sitting on her porch in the cold and dark.

After some time, the local author abruptly dissipated. Bethany stood to pick up the coat and hat from where they now lay empty in the chair. She supposed she’d just throw them in the trash. But beneath the abandoned clothing, she found a thin book with a bad cover. Stepping to the edge of the porch and angling the book toward the streetlight, Bethany saw that it was called Leaving Marks. With a feeling more like sliding than sinking, Bethany opened the book to the first page where she read, in chintzy italics, “Dedicated, on behalf of Bethany, Aaron, and Grayson, to all monuments everywhere.”

As Bethany crawled into bed, Aaron asked, “Why are you so cold?”

“I was on the porch,” said Bethany. She paused for Aaron to ask why she had been on the porch, but when he didn’t, she said, “I figured out what that monument is supposed to be. What it’s supposed to look like.”

“You did?” asked Aaron. He sounded maybe half awake, maybe less.

“It’s Avery Weber,” said Bethany. “Without his hat and jacket.”

“Huh,” said Aaron. “How did you figure that out?”

“Avery Weber just came by,” said Bethany. “And that’s what he looked like except he had a hat and jacket. He actually self-published on our porch. All over one of our chairs.” She didn’t know why she had phrased it that way, so grossly.

“Huh,” said Aaron again. “Only a coat and jacket? Sounds like he could use some shoes.” He was now, for all practical purposes, asleep.

“What kind of shoes?” asked Bethany, smiling to herself.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Aaron.

“Bowling shoes?” asked Bethany. “Tennis shoes?”

Aaron’s snore of reply was, if such a thing is possible, coy.

The next morning, Hope Dewis stopped by just as Bethany was on her way out the door. She was dressed as if she too was on her way to work, which she was. It wasn’t especially windy, but what wind there was had already destroyed her hairdo and was now, with nowhere to go but up, beginning to rebuild it.

“I’m on my way to work,” said Hope. “But I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Know what?” asked Bethany, standing with her key in the lock on the front door and the storm door resting against her hip.

“They’re tearing down the monument to Avery Weber’s contributions to local literature,” said Hope. “I thought since you and Aaron and Grayson’s names are on it, you’d want to know. I thought you’d probably be as upset about the whole thing as I am.”

“Why are they tearing it down?” asked Bethany.

“They’re claiming there’s no Avery Weber,” said Hope. “They’re saying ‘Avery Weber’ is just a pen name that a bunch of the local authors in the Multioak Local Authors Support Group used collectively. No one person is Avery Weber. It’s all of them. Or several of them, I guess. That’s why the monument didn’t look like anything. That’s why it was just, like, a blobby shape or whatever.”

“Will people who donated to the monument be getting refunds?” asked Bethany, wanting them not to but not wanting Hope to know that.

“That’s what I’m still trying to figure out,” said Hope. She looked at her phone. “I’m running late, I need to go, but I’ll let you know as soon as I hear more.”

“One quick thing,” said Bethany. She took her key out of the lock, stepped aside to let the storm door swing shut. “Who’s Brandon Dewis? Are you married now?”

“Oh,” said Hope. “No. It’s just that when you donate enough to get a brick, you were only allowed to put four words on it. And I wanted to get my full money’s worth. If just did ‘Hope Dewis’ I’d only be using half of my allotted words. So I added ‘and Brandon’ to get me to four. You’re so lucky to have two other family members who also appreciate Avery Weber’s contributions to local literature. Of course, you couldn’t use your last name. But you got those commas as a bonus! Unless you paid extra for them?”

“Ah,” said Bethany. “I’m not sure.”

“But I guess we don’t appreciate Avery Weber’s contributions to local literature anymore,” said Hope. “Do we? It’s hard to know.”

“It is,” said Bethany, and these words acted as a sort of friendly banishing spell that sent Hope into her car, out of the driveway, and down the street.

Settled at her desk, Bethany reached into her bag and pulled out Leaving Marks, the book Avery Weber, or whatever that was, had self-published on her porch. She figured now that the monument was coming down, she could allow herself a little curiosity. Bethany flipped to the beginning of the first chapter, pleased with how little irritation she felt at the brief glimpse she caught of the dedication as she passed it by. She read the first half of the first sentence, which was: “‘Holy moley!!!’ asserted Billie-Jean Zephyr while wearing freshly-laced-up over-priced matching low-top casual sneakers with…”

And that was plenty.