Too Close to Home

Promise Falls is too large to be called quaint, but it’s a pretty city, lots of historic architecture, a river running down from the falls it’s named for through the center of town, and the closer you get to that center, the better it looks, with old-fashioned-looking streetlamps and signs, brick sidewalks, most of the shops having a colonial look about them. City hall is a bit of a mixed bag. It’s fronted by several sets of doors and three-story columns that have a Faneuil Hall kind of look, but with modern additions flanking them.

I parked out front and said to Drew, “I’ll only be a couple of minutes. If someone wants the truck moved, just circle the block.”

“Got it,” he said.

I went around to the back of the truck, grabbed the watering can, and walked briskly to the front doors and through the rotunda and up the long flight of marble stairs to the second floor. I knew where I was going.

The mayor’s office is actually several rooms. There’s the reception area, with the main desk, and the deputy mayor’s office to the left, several smaller offices for administrative aides to the right. But the door to Mayor Finley’s office was straight ahead, and when the woman behind the main desk saw me heading for it, a smile broke out across her face and she said, “Christ on a cracker as I live and breathe, Jim Cutter.”

“Hey, Delia,” I said, flashing back a smile, but not breaking my stride.

“What’s with the can?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you’re working for Building Services, keeping the office plants from getting thirsty?” She winked. “It’s still a better gig than driving His Worship around, I’ll bet.” I just smiled. “Jesus, Jim, what happened to you? You walk into a mountain?”

“It’s nothing,” I said.

“If you want to see the mayor, he’s in his office, but he’s kind of busy right now with this lady he’s got helping him map out his campaign for Congress. You’ve heard about that, I guess.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Can you believe it?”

I just shrugged. “The voters always get who they deserve, Delia,” I said.

“You want me to let him know you’re here?”

“No, that’s okay. I just wanted to know if he was in. If he is, I figure that means Lance must be around.”

“I saw him a few minutes ago. I think he’s down the hall in the coffee room.” Delia was reaching for the phone. “Want me to let him know you’re here?”

“No no,” I said quickly. “I’m heading down that way anyway.” I held up the can.

Delia reached out and grabbed my arm as I started to slip away. “I’m sorry about your boy. About Derek.” I nodded, grateful for her concern. “I don’t believe it for a minute,” she said, and let go of me.

As I strolled down the hallway I practiced my grip on the handle of the galvanized steel can. It was important that I have a good hold on it.

I pushed open the door to the coffee room. It was big enough for half a dozen tables, with some vending machines along one wall, a coffee machine on a counter next to a sink and refrigerator.

The room was empty but for one man. Lance was seated at one of the tables, his right hand around a paper cup of coffee, his left turning the pages of the sports section.

“Hey,” I said.

As Lance turned to look I brought the watering can back over my shoulder, then swung it full force across his face. There was a loud, hollow bang as it connected. He tumbled back across the table and collapsed in a heap onto the floor.

“You shouldn’t have spit in my ear,” I said, then turned around and went back out to the truck.

Drew didn’t need much instruction. Not that yard maintenance is, as they say, rocket surgery. But he knew what to do without being asked. At each of our stops, I took the Deere and Drew fired up one of the push mowers and went into the places I couldn’t reach with the lawn tractor. When he was done with that, he used the edger, then took the blower and cleared the walkways and driveways of grass debris.

I tossed him a bottle of water after our third house, and he downed it in one gulp. “Why don’t we break for lunch,” I said. There was a park along the river, just down from the falls, where we could find plenty of shade and, with any luck, some breeze. I drove down to it, found a spot along the curb long enough for the truck and the trailer, and invited Drew to follow me to one of the picnic tables.

“When you came out of city hall,” he said, “you looked kind of, I don’t know, funny. A kind of shit-eatin’ grin. Smug.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Smug sounds right.” I gave my head a scratch, tousled my hair to get rid of some lawn debris. “I’ve been under a bit of stress lately and was looking for an outlet.”

“Okay,” Drew said, and pursued it no further.

“So,” I said. “Your mother. You’re looking after her?”

Drew nodded, took a bite of his peanut butter sandwich.

“I got the sense she’s not well.”

He took another couple of bites and nodded. He waited until his mouth wasn’t too gummed up, then said, “She’s old. She’s got cancer.” Then another bite of sandwich.

“I’m sorry,” I said.