Simpson butted me with his head in assent. I set him down, tried unsuccessfully to brush off some of his fur off my front, stepped into my flip-flops, and headed out to meet the enemy.
As I approached, Bob looked up with a smile. It dimmed when she saw that it was me. Ella, on the other hand, stood up and waved me forward. “Oh, Rebecca! It is so good to see you! Isn’t this a beautiful evening? I was just telling Bob about how her father used to ride his bike up and down the street with his buddies! This is such a nice, flat neighborhood.”
Bob moved aside so I could come up the steps. She dropped her stick and put her small, white face into her palms, still gazing blankly outward.
I sat down in the wicker chair opposite Ella. I sank down into the soft, old cushion, lifting my thigh to pull out a sharp down feather that poked me. “Bob, you seem to like the flat street—you sure go fast on that scooter.”
Bob turned and leaned against the pedestal supporting the concrete railing. “I do like the scooter a lot. It’s fun. But I have to ride by myself. Gran, are there any kids that live around here?” Bob picked at a scab on her knee, dislodging it and watching the blood form a droplet in its place. She dabbed it up with her forefinger and put it in her mouth. My stomach turned.
“You will make a lot of friends when school starts, I bet.” Ella smiled, but I sensed just a little desperation around the edges of her grin.
It was my turn, and I knew it. “Bob, there are kids around here. As a matter of fact, there is a new family that just moved in behind us. The Davises. I met Mrs. Davis when she came to Starbucks for coffee the other day. Her husband is the new football coach at the high school, and they have a daughter your age. If you want to, we can walk over to meet them sometime.
Bob leapt to her feet. “Tomorrow? Can we go tomorrow? Gran, is tomorrow okay? Like right after lunch?” Bob vibrated.
“Certainly, honey. But maybe you shouldn’t just drop in. Maybe you should call them, Rebecca?”
“Here’s the thing, guys.” Two pairs of eyes looked at me expectantly. “I don’t know them well enough to call them. I am not sure I even told Mrs. Davis my name, actually.”
Bob sat down immediately and picked up her stick again, stabbing it against the concrete until it splintered.
“But, Bob, I have an idea. Do you know that I have a cat? He is a very nice, fuzzy guy, and he likes to take walks on a leash.”
Bob looked startled. “Really? A cat on a leash? They can do that with cats?”
I nodded. “Absolutely. And I have found that cats on leashes are great conversation starters. So if we just happen to walk by the Davises house, the three of us, it may be just the thing we need to get acquainted!”
Bob clasped her hands around her knobby knees. Her eyes shone with excitement. “Did you know that I almost had a cat once? My Dad was going to get me one, but then he was deployed, and I had to go to stay with my grandparents in Iowa, so he said we couldn’t get one. I really like cats.” Her gaze turned outward, and I could almost see a cloud of sadness descend on her.
“Welp. That’s decided. Tomorrow, after lunch?” I looked at Ella, who nodded. “Simpson and I will pick you up tomorrow at one. Okay?”
Bob said nothing, but her lips moved. They formed the word Simpson over and over. I stooped on my way down the steps to touch her on the head. She startled at my touch, her bony frame stiffening. I snatched my hand away. What a nervous kid. Then Bob resurfaced, wiped her nose, and smiled.
“See you tomorrow!”
When I got home, I sank onto my bed beside Simpson, who had been dreaming of tuna, probably. He opened one golden eye and purred. “Fuzzball, we have our work cut out for us.”
Simpson purred. I worried.
▷◁
Simpson’s harness was made out of lime green cotton mesh. He was very patient as I put it over his head and threaded his legs through the openings for them. Then I pulled the “girth” under his tummy and fastened the Velcro on the other side. Just like a miniature saddle. He purred during the procedure.
“He looks so cute! OOOOH, he has a matching leash! And it has little blue fishes all over it! A fishie leash!” Bob clasped her hands and squatted beside Simpson, reaching out to stroke his head. Simpson mewed at her. “I think he is rarin’ to go, don’t you?”
I laughed and attached the leash to the clip on his harness. “Well, rarin’ may be overstating it. I think Simpy is pretty tolerant. I would say he is willing to go.”
“Can I hold the leash when we walk?”
“Yes.” I put a restraining hand on Bob’s shoulder. “But you have to promise not to let go. Because Simpson is most definitely NOT a dog, and if he gets away, we can’t just say ‘Simpy, COME!’ and expect him to run right back to us. I know this from experience. Once I dropped the leash, and he ran away from me, and he didn’t come back for a few hours. I thought I had lost him for good.”
Bob put her left hand over her heart, “pledge of allegiance” style.
“No, Bob. Other hand. Your heart is on the other side of your chest. Use your right hand.”
“Oh. Okay!” She switched. “I solemnly promise.”
We headed out of the apartment in single file. First, a very kind tiger cat, all his stripes in a row, tail held high; followed by one little turbo-charged girl, tangled curls and freckles flashing, clutching the fishie leash proudly; followed by me, smiling my best insincere smile, wondering how I got myself into all of this wholesome activity.
It was a beautiful afternoon for strolling. The sun was warm but not sizzling. Lawns sparkled, wet from sprinklers. Those little mineral specks in the concrete shone like diamonds. I felt liberated after six hours of serving coffee to strangers.
Simpson padded along with dignity, stopping to take a delicate bite of grass here and there. Bob stepped behind him carefully, clutching the leash for dear life; my warning must have made her very nervous. I waved at Mr. Granville, weeding his rose bed.
“Hello, girls! This is quite a procession.” He wiped his forehead with his forearm. “Who is this new friend, Rebecca?”
Bob shaded her eyes with her free hand. “Hi. My name is Bob Bowers. I just moved in with my gran.”
Mr. Granville motioned us to join him on his lawn. Simpson trotted up to Mr. Granville and rubbed against his legs. Bob stuck out her hand in greeting. “I am very pleased to meet you.”
Mr. Granville shook hands with her gravely, and then twinkled at me. “Taking a little constitutional? I hope the Duncans’ dog isn’t out!”
“Yes, we are hoping to meet some of the neighbors.”
He nodded. “Nothing like a little tiger cat on a leash to break the ice! Would you two like some lemonade?” He gestured to the wide front porch with wicker furniture and a very inviting porch swing.
“Thank you, but we just got started.”
Bob flashed a freckled grin. “Maybe we will see you on the way back.” She bounced.
As we made our way back to the pavement, Bob observed, “He was very nice. I bet he has a whole bunch of grandchildren.”
I winced. Mr. Granville’s wife died very young, and he had never remarried. “He should have, but he doesn’t. He lives alone since his wife died many years ago.”
Bob looked stricken. “Well, I will have to go and visit him sometimes. He could pretend that I am his grandchild, right?” We continued down the street, but before we got much further, Bob turned and waved goodbye to Mr. Granville, who returned it with a salute. Bob nodded to herself, as if making a pledge.
We walked past Mr. Havens, who also offered lemonade, the Reeders, who welcomed Bob to the neighborhood and told us that the Starks had a new Pit Bull named Triscuit, who might not like cats. We hobnobbed briefly with the Teeters, the Stricklands, and the Prices. Simpson seemed to be getting bored and tried to turn for home.
But then we drew even with the sm
all, immaculate brick bungalow that had featured a “SOLD” sign just a couple of weeks ago. Jumping rope in the driveway was a brown, plump little girl in bright pink sneakers, orange shorts, and a red-and-white polka-dot shirt. Her hair clattered with what looked like hundreds of multicolored beads and barrettes.
Bob gasped. “She’s beautiful! Like a rainbow!”
The girl dropped her rope at the sight of us and hurtled down the driveway towards us, flapping her arms in excitement. “Oh, hi! What a cute cat! I have never seen one on a leash! Can I pet her? Do you live on this street? I just moved here. I don’t have any friends yet. My name is Hallie Davis. My dad is going to be the new football coach at Framington High next year. My mom is a housewife.”
She took a breath, knelt down, and stroked Simpy, then stood and clapped her hands. “Do you want to play? I have a swing set in the backyard and everything! My dad went to Home Depot and built it just for me and my friends. When I get some.”
Bob looked to me for approval. I nodded. We walked into the Davis’s backyard, where the grass was manicured within an inch, the swing set looked very inviting, and the flowerbeds were thick with mulch. I sat on the back steps and watched as Bob and Hallie frolicked.
Hallie seemed like a kind child. That was apparent from the first, when she offered Bob the best of the two swings “This one is too low; your feet will drag. I’m used to it—you can use the high one.” She also was quick to laugh. She told Bob a series of knock-knock jokes that were hilarious to both of them, and they swung and giggled, their legs pumping and their heads dipping backwards and forwards as they gained momentum. It occurred to me that maybe I ought to introduce myself to Hallie’s mom, since we were making ourselves at home in her backyard. I stood and knocked on the screen door. I heard footsteps, and Mrs. Davis came into the immaculate kitchen towards me, smiling.
“Hello. I am Beck Throckmorton. We met the other day at Starbucks. I am so sorry to have barged into your yard like this. I live down the street, and that is Bob Bowers, my little friend. We met your daughter a little while ago, and they came back here to play. Oh, and this here is my cat, Simpson.” Simpy sat calmly at the end of his leash, gazing into the shrubbery.
I stepped back, so that Mrs. Davis could come outside. This was a very stately woman. She was taller than I, nearly six feet, I reckoned. Her soft hair floated around her face in a mahogany cloud. Her skin was like a mocha latte. She glanced over at the girls and smiled, motioning for me to sit at the picnic table along with her. “Of course! I remember! My name is Marva. So nice to see you again. We have only been here for a few weeks, so it is so nice for Hallie to meet . . .” there was a pause. “Bob, did you say?”
“Her name is Roberta, but she prefers Bob.”
Marva raised her eyebrows. I guessed that a bit more of an explanation of Bob and me was in order. “Bob is living across the street from me with her great-grandmother, Ella Bowers. Her father is deployed in the Middle East. Bob and I are new friends, too.”
The girls were now swinging and holding hands. It looked as if they had been buddies forever.
Marva smiled. “Well, then. We are all new friends!” She called out to the girls, “I bet you’re thirsty! Would you all like to come inside for some Coke?” They shrieked with enthusiasm.
“Oh, I just LOVE Coke!” Hallie said to Bob. “And Mama won’t let me have it except on special occasions!”
This was the start of a beautiful relationship, I thought. And I almost never had Coke, either. Nothing is better than a new friend and an ice-cold cola. I watched as Bob took a small sip of the Coke without letting on that she hated bubbles. Wow. And even Simpson approved, because Marva Davis offered him a bite of string cheese.
CHAPTER SIX
Pizza night. The gloaming in northern Ohio. The sounds of the neighborhood settling down: garage doors humming closed, screen doors slamming, the final thumps of basketballs in driveways. Gail and I sat on my front stoop, a double cheese pizza between us, along with plastic cups and a bottle of wine.
Gail and I had each devoured three large slices—calories be damned. I was on my second cup of merlot. Gail poured herself a third. Gail had listened patiently to my tale of woe concerning Diana—tutted and nodded in all the right places—reminded me of all of the reasons I needed to wake up and smell the coffee, let bygones be bygones. But when I sighed and launched into the story of Bob and Ella, Gail began to twitch with boredom. She sighed loudly three times, and when I failed to pay attention, she raised her hand as if in class.
“May I interrupt, please? Enough info about you and all of your issues—Beck. I get it. You still resent your sister and Bryan. Tough beans. A little girl with emotional baggage has sort of fallen into your lap. Ironic. I can’t wait to see how that turns out. HOWEVER”—Gail waved her hands dismissively—“we need to change the focus here. Let’s talk about us. I need a man, and so do you.”
Although I like cutting to the chase, in this instance, Gail was pushing things. She needed the man, not me. I leaned back against the steps, the concrete digging into my elbows. “Gail. I am not interested in another one of your ‘friend of a friends.’ These guys you hook us up with are never my type. Or they are other women’s cast-offs, or simply losers. Relationships and I don’t go together, apparently. I do fine on my own with my writing. And I have a vibrator, for God’s sake.”
Gail rolled her eyes. She ran a manicured hand through her artfully streaked spikes. “Beck. Everybody needs to have a partner. A companion. You have been in total denial since you walked out on Bryan. How much longer do you think you will be able to fool yourself into thinking that a cute apartment and a cat will do keep you happy for the rest of your life?” She picked a cat hair off my shoulder. “God. This place has ‘spinster’ written all over it.”
Usually I use a tape roller before Gail comes over. But this afternoon was a bit fraught—no time. “Gail. Spinsters are women who have never had sex, been married, or lived with a man. I am most certainly not THAT.”
“Hair splitting. You write erotica, for God’s sake. Any therapist would tell you that your writing is a substitution for real life. If you had an actual man, you might be writing the next great American novel right now, instead of The Wicked Warlord, or whatever you are calling this one.”
I winced. “There may be a modicum of truth in what you’re saying. But let me also remind you of Art Viscup.”
“Art Viscup was not all that bad. So he had a few pocks on his face, and he played Frisbee Golf. There are worse things.”
I nearly choked on my wine. “Right. Worse things. Like that guy named Winthrop? The house flipper wannabe? Even you, Miss eHarmony, saw the futility of that one. And of online dating. We are getting to an age in which all the good men are already taken. The ones that remain are the leftovers. And I despise leftovers.”
A sigh from Gail. We have this conversation, or variables of it, nearly every week. She never gives up. “Beck. Just let me tell you about Theo and Rick.”
My God.
“Theo Blackburn is the new manager of Framington Title. I met him at a closing a month ago, and we have since worked on three others. He is, I would say, about forty, and yes, divorced.”
I clenched every single muscle in my body.
“But wait, Beck! His wife left him for her chiropractor. He is a really nice person. Very sincere. He never got over his divorce.”
“And so you think I would see this as a plus?”
“Hear me out. Anyway, Theo is good looking in an average kind of way. Not slick, but you know what I mean. Brown hair and eyes. Sincere smile. Honest. People trust him. All of my clients have raved about him.”
“And who is Rick? His twin brother?”
Gail rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Beck, you get more jaded by the minute. No. Rick Ramsey is on Theo’s softball team.”
“Are we in a sitcom? How on earth did you me
et somebody on somebody you sit with in the occasional conference room’s softball team?”
At this point, Gail was getting frustrated. I knew this, because when she’s frustrated, she bites at the gel on her nails. Her thumbnail was nearly gel-free. “Beck, for your information, I have extracurricular activities that you know about but seem to ignore. You know that I joined the Framington Business District Softball Tournament in the spring. I asked if you wanted to do it, but you just laughed.”
I dimly remembered scoffing.
“And that is where Rick and I became friends. And Theo is on Rick’s team. So we have had beers together a few times after practices. And despite your lack of interest in anything other than your cat and your porno, I have spoken highly of you to them. Well, to Theo, because Rick and I kind of have a thing.”
“First of all, it isn’t porno, and you know it. Women’s erotic fiction is not porno.”
“Splitting hairs, but go on.”
I took another gulp of merlot for fortification. “I am not dead set on living alone for the rest of my life. Good God. And leave my cat out of this! Simpson is a pet. Just about everybody but you has pets. But I am still getting over the massive dumping that Bryan and Diana did all over me, thank you very much.”
Gail sneered. “That was years ago. And as I recall, you walked out on Bryan first. How much time do you need? A decade?”
Point taken. “Gail, what do you want me to do? I am sick and tired of blind dates. It would be nice to have a great and delicious man in my life. But meeting him in an orchestrated fashion has NOT worked. One final flashback: remember Del Hicks?”
Gail stifled a snort.
“Yeah, Gail. How could anybody named DEL HICKS be cool in any way, shape, or form?” I reached over and pinched her upper arm. “Let me take you back to that wonderful evening at Bill’s Taproom. Yes, it was August, the height of allergy season. We sat around the high-top, sipping our brews. You were asking Del about his job as a meteorologist. He described it in great detail, as you recall. But right in the middle of his explanation of isobars, he sneezed. Is this coming back to you, Gail?”
Crossing the Street Page 4