Billy Summers

Billy shakes hands with Danny, then with the girl, who looks at him shyly as her brown hand disappears into his white one. ‘Nice to meet you both. Enjoying your summer vacation?’

‘Summer reading program’s okay,’ Danny says. ‘They give out stickers for each book you read. I’ve got four. Shanice got five, but I’ll catch up. We’re going over my house. After lunch, a bunch of us gonna play Monopoly down the park.’ He points. ‘Shan brings the board. I’m always the racecar.’

Kids on their own in the twenty-first century, Billy marvels, how about that. Only then he notices the fat guy two houses down – wifebeater, Bermudas, grass-stained sneakers – keeping an eye on him. And on how he behaves with these kids.

‘Well, seeya later, alligator,’ Danny says, mounting his bike.

‘After awhile, crocodile,’ Billy responds, and both kids laugh.

That afternoon, after taking a nap – he supposes that he’s allowed an afternoon nap, now that he’s a writer – he takes the sixpack of Bud from the fridge. He leaves it on the Ackermans’ porch with a note that says Thanks for the lawn fertilizer – Dave.

Off to a good start here. And downtown? He thinks so. He hopes so.

Except maybe for Hoff. Hoff bugs him.

7

That evening, while Billy’s putting down lawn food, Jamal Ackerman comes over with two of the beers that were in Billy’s fridge. Jamal is wearing a green coverall with his name in gold thread on one breast and EXCELLENT TIRE on the other. With him, holding a can of Pepsi, is a young boy.

‘Hey there, Mr Lockridge,’ Jamal says. ‘This little man is my son, Derek. Shanice says you met her already.’

‘Yes, with a little man named Danny.’

‘Thanks for the beers. Hey, what is that you’re using? Looks like my wife’s flour sifter.’

‘Exactly what it is. I thought about buying a lawn spreader at Walmart, but for this so-called lawn …’ He looks at the small bald patch and shrugs. ‘Too much expense for too little return.’

‘Looks like it works fine. Might even give it a try myself. But what about in back? That’s a lot bigger.’

‘It needs to be mown short first, and I don’t have a mower. Yet.’

‘You can borrow ours, can’t he, Dad?’ Derek says.

Jamal ruffles the kid’s hair. ‘Any time.’

‘No, that’s too much,’ Billy says. ‘I’ll buy one. Always supposing I get traction on the book I’m trying to write and stick around.’

They go over to the porch and sit on the steps. Billy opens the beer and drinks. It hits the spot and he says so.

‘What’s your book about?’ Derek asks. He’s sitting between them.

‘Top secret.’ Smiling as he says it.

‘Yeah, but is it make-believe or true?’

‘A little of both.’

‘That’s enough,’ Jamal says. ‘It’s not polite to pry.’

A woman is approaching from one of the houses at the far end of the street. Mid-fifties, graying hair, bright lipstick. She’s holding a highball glass and walking not quite straight.

‘That’s Mrs Kellogg,’ Jamal says, keeping his voice low. ‘Widow lady. Lost her husband last year. Had a stroke.’ He gazes thoughtfully at Billy’s excuse for a lawn. ‘While mowing the grass, actually.’

‘Is this a party, and can I crash it?’ Mrs Kellogg asks. Even though she’s still on the walk and there’s no breeze, Billy can smell the gin on her breath.

‘As long as you don’t mind sitting on the steps.’ Billy gets up and offers his hand. ‘Dave Lockridge.’

And now here comes the guy who was keeping an eye on Billy’s interaction with Shanice and Danny. He’s swapped his wifebeater and Bermudas for a pair of jeans and a Masters of the Universe T-shirt. With him is a tall, scrawny blonde in a housedress and sneakers. From next door – bearing what looks like a plate of brownies – comes Jamal’s wife and daughter. Billy invites them all inside, where they can sit in actual chairs.

Welcome to the neighborhood, he thinks.

8

The Masters of the Universe guy and his skinny blonde wife are the Raglands. The Fazios also show up – although without their son – and the Petersons from the far end of the block, with a bottle of red wine. The living room fills up. It’s a nice little impromptu party. Billy enjoys himself, partly because he doesn’t have to work at projecting the dumb self, partly because he likes these people, even Jane Kellogg, who is pretty tight and has to keep visiting the bathroom. Which she calls the biffy. And by the time they all drift away – early, because tomorrow is a working day – Billy knows he will fit in here. He will be of interest because he’s writing a book and that makes him something of an exotic, but that will pass. By midsummer, always supposing Joel Allen doesn’t show up early for his date with a bullet, he’ll be just another guy on the street. Another neighbor.