Candy from a Stranger

by Buckner, Daryl;

  I sat sweating, a slight tremor in my hand as I slip the photos back into the valise. The Prospect home is a nice mid-level tract house with green-painted siding and white trim. Like so many homes in Texas, the lawn is small, brown, and lacking of flowers or landscaping. Next door is a smaller house, almost a mother-in-law cottage that is covered in light gray paint and has a small cracked driveway. There is a sign on a post driven into the dry grass in front that says:

  For Rent or Lease

  Immediate move-in (512)-555-RENT

  The heat makes my new beard itch and the face I see in the rear-view mirror is puffy and red. I look at the tiny bicycle leaning up against Kyle Simmons’ home, I glance in the rear-view mirror again and measure the distance to Kennelly Way; I stare at the “for rent” sign and the cracked driveway.

  The blood rushing in my ears, I turn the Volvo around and speed my way back to Bluebell Lane.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rick Dietz is not happy with me.

  “Ben, even if we weren’t old college buddies, and even if you and Jeanie weren’t some of my oldest clients... and friends for Christ sake; I’d still be obliged to tell you that what you’re doing doesn’t make a lot of sense!” He shuffled a few papers. “Your account is in good shape but cashing out a bunch of mutuals at this time doesn’t make good financial sense... especially for this.”

  Rick’s office air-conditioning was laboring hard, but it was still stifling.

  “Look, after you called me I did a little snooping on the computer and the real estate market is really screwy right now... especially in Breakline. I mean, I don’t get it! You’ve already got a home – paid for yet, and you want to lease a shit-box, sorry... fixer-upper, in Bum-Scratch Texas. Does Jeanie go along with this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Rick shook his head and sighed. “I know you’ve got some dough in the bank. Why don’t you tip into those funds instead of cashing out mutual funds?”

  I said, “I want to stay liquid. Twenty grand isn’t going to make that big a dent in my account, is it?” I already knew the answer.

  “No... no, but it’s the principle of the thing. Why do you want a house in Breakline anyway? Is this a mid-life crisis kind of thing?”

  Rick Dietz was well aware of what happened with Lucas, but he didn’t know about Jeanie and me.

  “No,” I lied, “No crisis – I’m just taking a sabbatical from the Annex. I’m thinking of teaching in Breakline.”

  “For Christ sakes, where? There’s no college there! And don’t tell me you’re going to teach high school level. I’m dumb, but not that dumb.”

  “I’ve also been thinking of writing a book.”

  Rick had put a pen in his mouth and was swiveling his chair side-to-side. “A book. Now. After all this time?” Suddenly he stopped his chair and eyed me. “You’re not going to tell me the truth, are you?”

  Rick was a good guy, only looking out for my best interests, but he didn’t need to get mixed up in any of this.

  When in doubt... lie.

  “Of course I’m going to tell you the truth. I just need a change of scenery, a chance to recharge my batteries, and I want to lease instead of buy in case I decide I made a big mistake. Better to be cautious, right?”

  That seemed to mollify him. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll liquefy the twenty ‘G’ but when this whole thing blows up in your face I get to say I told you so.”

  “Done.”

  Pulling out some forms, Rick said, “The account is in both your names. Any problem getting Jeanie to sign this?”

  I smiled my best husband-smile. “None at all.”

  With the proper forms and a promise to “do lunch” sometime soon, I left Arboretum Mutual and returned home. Once I had piled up the ignored past few days’ worth of the Austin Statesman on the kitchen table, I got out some old check receipt slips and began practising Jeanie’s signature.

  *

  A day after committing myself to the house on Prospect, Arnie returned to the Bono’s North Austin warehouse around 3:45pm and I waited in my car in the U-Haul parking lot, trying to keep cool and trying to look like any other rental customer albeit one who never entered the building and one who didn’t rent anything. After almost a perfect hour, Arnie left his place of employment in his green Jeep Cherokee and took the foundation road to the freeway.

  By the looks of you, I’d say we could be neighbors. Beer-man Freddie had said that but he was wrong. Freddie wasn’t my neighbor, Arnie was.

  I followed him on 183, past the Dominion complex, and continued down 183 till he took the combined exits for Cedar Park/Lakeline.

  The son-of-a-bitch only lives four miles from my house.

  Once Arnie had traversed Bristol Oaks and Whispering Pines, the Jeep turned north into Decatur Place and parked in the driveway whose curbside painted address said 1505.

  1505 Decatur Place. The son-of-a-bitch lives walking distance from my home.

  Four miles from Jackson Elementary School.

  Decatur Place is a cul-de-sac with no outlet so I slowly drove past Arnie, turned around at the end and drove back to park three houses from 1505.

  Houses along Decatur were mid-size family dwellings and Arnie’s home was no exception: about two-thousand square feet, small attached garage, painted in two shades of tan and a typical Texas yard of sparse brown grass and a few water-starved forsythia hugging the right side of the house. Unlike the other homes on Decatur, Arnie’s home was spotless. The lawn, though dry, was neatly trimmed and raked. There was no garbage receptacle showing; no mislaid bike, no oil stain on the driveway. Not even a cigarette butt or discarded piece of paper littering the sidewalk out front. Compared to the neighboring places, 1505 Decatur Place was immaculate.

  Arnie had entered his home carrying his work gloves and the cleaned root beer bottle and I smoked a cigarette as I waited for the sun to go down. In my paranoia I didn’t want to run the Volvo for the air-conditioning so I suffered in the heat, only allowing myself to leave the window half-open, and counted the minutes till darkness.

  I checked my watch and the dial read 8:00pm on the dot. I was right at the median where it was growing dark but the street’s overhead lights hadn’t kicked on yet. I got out of the car, lit a cigarette and began walking slowly towards the house. I scanned the street and there was no one around, Arnie obviously returning from work a little earlier than others on the block. So far, there was not a peep from Arnie’s and my mind wove horrid scenarios as to what might be happening behind the walls at 1505.

  In front of Arnie’s place there is a set-in-brick mailbox with the five-pointed star of Texas on top. I paused, looked up-and-down the block and pretended to tie a loose shoelace. Arnie’s windows were curtained and no one was on the street, no dog about, fussing and barking. With a cold, nervous trickle of sweat going down my back I quickly straightened, opened the box and my gut instinct proved sound. I withdrew a letter, out-going mail, and in the upper left corner was one of those rectangular stickers they give you in sheets to entice you to use the local advertising service. A return address sticker.

  It read: Arnold Russell 1505 Decatur Pl. Austin, Tx. 78606

  Arnold Russell.

  Arnie.

  I don’t know why but my eyes were drawn to the postage stamp affixed in the right corner, a common-enough size but it depicted a shining sun with the overlain words “May the Grace of the Lord go with you” on it.

  A Christmas stamp?

  Nerves shaking, I hurriedly stuffed the letter back inside the box, closed the lid, and tried not to run back to my car.

  In the idling Volvo I wiped sweat off my brow, tried to calm my shaking hands, and mentally calculated the correct streets to return home: I had some packing to do.

  Arnold Russell.

  *

  You will do as I say, Launi. Oh yes. As sure as woman is commanded in the Book to cleave only unto her husband, you will do as I say. Ephesians 5:22-24: “Wives, submit yourselves unto your
husband as unto the Lord for the husband is head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church; and he is the savior of the body.”

  You will do as I say and there will be no digression. No gosh-darn back sliding. That’s what’s wrong with this world today: The money-changers, the fornicators. That’s why I have forbidden the TV. Video games, exercise programs, talk shows, movies – the world is awash in lurid sex and disobedience and it’s a wonder that the Lord hasn’t sent down one of his mighty lightning bolts and burnt the leprous millions off the face of the earth.

  You will obey, Launi. You and my girls, seed of my loins.

  Or there will be Hell to pay.

  *

  Immediate move-in. Mrs. Walker (just call me Marian, dear) was true to her word, getting me into 1009 Prospect with a minimum of fuss and even leaving on cable and utilities until I could get everything transferred over to my name. The three months up-front had brought a smile to her face and when she heard my made-up story of being an aspiring author working on his first novel she almost squealed with joy.

  “Oh! An author! I just love my Agatha Christies! Are you writing fiction? If so, I’d love to read your first draft!”

  A pale but spry seventy-year old, she actually blushed when she heard herself speak.

  “Oh my goodness! What am I saying? Of course, your first draft you want to keep secret! What I meant was: I’ll be the first to buy your book.”

  Standing in my new doorway, keys in my hand, I heard Ma Cain whisper in my ear: When in doubt... lie.

  “Well, it’s the story of a wise-cracking, hard-bitten murder detective who uses his wits and training to find a killer in spite of an over-bearing and corrupt system.”

  Mrs. Walker pursed her lips. “Oh dear. It’s not all sexy lurid stuff, is it?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Oh good.” And with that “just-call-me-Marian” waltzed down my new driveway, got in to her SUV, and went back to her own home on the other side of town.

  1009 Prospect was her son’s home (a gift from her and her late husband) until he unfortunately was killed by an IED during his first tour of duty in Iraq. Being unmarried and having no children, her son’s house had sat empty until Marian had had a word with her attorney and been informed that she needed to either sell or rent it and being that it had been in the family more years than “Carter had little liver pills, dear”, she couldn’t bear to see it permanently go. A lease had been just the thing.

  The house on Bluebell had been easy to lock up and abandon because it was no emptier now than it had been for the last six months. Mrs. Walker had made some basic furniture part of the deal: a sofa, a chair, and a kitchen outfitted with an antiquated stove and refrigerator in 1970s-approved avocado green. One large suitcase-full of clothes and toiletries fulfilled all my other needs and as far as washing was concerned, Mrs. Walker informed me that there was a Wash-n-Dry up on Center Street, right next door to a Chinese restaurant that she assured me “didn’t use dogs or cats” in the preparation of its menu. I had earlier put the box containing my father’s gun in the trunk of the Volvo and in a fit of James Bond-induced inspiration, I wrapped the gun and ammunition in plastic and buried it inside a huge aluminum can of Betty Crocker flour I found leftover in the kitchen pantry.

  After getting situated a little, I made quick trips to the liquor store, Bob’s Market, and a side trip to Home Depot to purchase the cheapest lawnmower I could find. I planned to spend a lot of time in the front yard and a mower was a good diversion for neighbors who were sure to be interested in the bearded newcomer with an unusual interest in landscaping. The house had a few beds of scraggly unidentified flowers and I would use them as another good excuse to keep my eye on my neighbors in 1101.

  Inside the house at a large picture window, I had a wooden table to put my laptop on and it afforded me a panoramic view of my front yard and that of the neighbors. My laptop, cigarettes and a few cups of coffee and I was set: I could wait there till hell freezes over.

  I had two bedrooms at my disposal, one with a cheap dresser and desk, and I put up my corkboard filled with the photos of the nine boys, various newspaper clippings, and I affixed the summertime schedule of hours of operation and activities at nearby Kennelly Park. I spent the afternoon of my first full day in the Breakline house, the last day of school for students at Bass Elementary, having lunch and nursing my coffee at a mom-and-pop Mexican café next to the Gas-n-Go, waiting for Kyle Simmons to come home.

  PART TWO

  Even though it’s on the leeside

  Rain’s slowly taken this old porch

  There’s a mirror crack that wasn’t there before

  And the chair where you took morning coffee

  Is all thread-bare and worn,

  This old house knows you don’t love me anymore.

  Painted ballerina on your favorite china cup

  There’s a crack that runs straight through her heart

  And your window-box posies

  Lay scattered on the floor

  This old house knows you don’t love me anymore

  From “The Book of Broken Things”

  ‒ Tobias Mortimee

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Mister? My dad says there’s a ban on watering before dinnertime.” The boy was pointing at my madly whirling lawn sprinkler.

  Wednesdays and Saturdays.

  Kyle had made it home safely on his last day of school for the year, and even though it had been a Thursday I had shadowed his every move from drop-off to one excursion around the block on his Huffy bike. Hidden in my Volvo, he had not noticed me but this day I was trying to be as noticeable as possible. Seeing him come out of his house mid-morning, I had hurriedly pulled out an old hose out of the rear tool shed and tried to look busy as I made an attempt to resurrect the Walker lawn.

  Seeing Kyle Simmons’ resemblance to Lucas caused my stomach to turn to knots but I put on my friendliest smile and said, “A ban? Because of the drought?”

  Kyle shaded his eyes from the sun as he looked up at me. “Yeah. I guess they figure that the water’ll just burn off anyway.” He looked at my new home. “You move into Mr. Walker’s place?”

  I said, “Yeah, just yesterday.” I held out a hand, “Ben Cain.”

  Kyle drew himself up to his most mature height and put out a hand. “Kyle... Kyle Simmons.” His eyes again scanned the house. “You got any kids?”

  “Any kids my age” was the unspoken verse. I winced as I said, “No.”

  “Oh. Mr. Walker’s dead, you know. Got killed in the war. My dad says the President ought to be taken out and shot for sending him over there... what do you think, mister?”

  Kyle was precocious and I told myself not to talk down to him. I said, “Please call me Ben. After all, we’re going to be neighbors. The war?” I bent down to turn the spigot on the sprinkler head, “I don’t know. It’s hard to figure out why we’re over there, you know?”

  “Mom says it’s oil, dad says it’s because they believe in the wrong God, but you know what I think?”

  “No, what?”

  Kyle smiled and shot me a look to see how far he could test me. He said, “I think they’re a bunch of assholes.”

  I laughed and he relaxed a little more. “You may be right,” I said.

  Behind Kyle I heard a screen door slam and a medium-sized blond woman came toward us, wiping her hands on a cotton t-shirt that said: Willie Nelson For President! which featured the red-headed stranger smoking a joint shaped like the Washington Monument. The mother, five-feet-four on a good day, was petite and wore her jeans tight like only small-waisted women can do, at least successfully. Obviously, Kyle got his hair from his mother and his height from the dad.

  While the boy fidgeted and looked around to see if I had a dog, the mother held out a hand and said, “Oh good! I wanted to meet you and say welcome to the neighborhood... Mr.?”

  “Cain. Ben Cain.” I said as I shook her hand.

  “Karen... Karen Simmo
ns. I see you’ve met Kyle?”

  “Yes. He was just telling me that I’m breaking the law by watering during the day – and I’ve just moved in!” I smiled and tried to appear calm. I was anything but.

  Mrs. Simmons laughed. “Yes... well, most people don’t think twice about it. I guess because they’re at work... what kind of work do you do, Mr. Cain?”

  It was an innocent enough question but my guilt made the lie even more bitter. “Ben. I’m a teacher. Well, usually a teacher but I’m taking some time off to hopefully write a book.”

  “Oh, a book? Wow – I’ve always dreamed of doing that but...” She waved a hand in Kyle’s direction, “…you know.”

  We chatted on for a few minutes and Karen subtly grilled me about having a wife (I stretched the truth and said she was with a sick parent), kids, where I was originally from, and did I like tacos?

  “Charlie, that’s my husband... we usually make tacos on Saturdays over in the park. You’ve seen the park? Well, we like to make a day of it and Charlie just loves to grill the meat outdoors. He says it gives the tacos ‘panache’.” She smiled.

  Kyle said, “He says it gives them balls.”

  “Kyle!” Mrs. Simmons blushed and playfully swatted at her son.

  I said, “If that’s an invite, I accept. Are there any laws about bringing beer to the festivities?”

  Again she smiled, a very engaging smile; one that suggested a good nature and a trusting disposition – a double-edged sword in my view.

  “Not where I come from! Shall we meet at 2:00pm?”

  “Sounds perfect. I’ll see you then and just holler if you need help dragging everything down there.”

  “Will do. See you then.” And with that Kyle and his mother went inside their home and I returned to my new one. As soon as I had closed the door, I fired up my laptop.

  Nowadays you can find anyone on the internet. Because of their participation in the Hot Summer Nights celebration in Breakline, I learned that the head of the Blanco County Cruisin’ Chevy Club is Charles Simmons, who is also a fireman, and he and his wife Karen have won the “best potato salad” award two-years in a row. I’m guessing Charles keeps his ’58 Chevy Bel-Air (champagne-colored) in the garage because a late-model Toyota Tacoma is the only thing resting in the driveway at present. A small mention about military service in the Blanco Herald revealed that Charles must have ended his stint in the Marines about six years ago, making Kyle three when he joined. I also found an old newspaper column showing the young couple posing for their wedding announcement, Karen in chiffon and “Charlie” sporting a substantial mullet that in a few years would see the bottom of a waste basket at the Marine induction center.