a past he had no desire to visit.
He passed the houses slowly—the green one, the yellow one, another green one, a beige one—all old, all unique in their own way despite the obvious similarities that came from having a common builder. Same gutters, same windows, same shingle roofs. Kevin locked his eyes on the white house, the fifteenth of the twenty on Baker Street.
Here resides Balinda and Eugene Parson with their thirty-six-year-old retarded son, Bob. Here is the childhood home of one Kevin Parson, adopted son, formerly known as Kevin Little until his mommy and daddy went to heaven.
Five minutes. Okay, Kevin, time’s running out.
He parked the car across the street. A two-foot picket fence ran around the front yard and then rose to six feet for its run around the back. Here the fence was painted brilliant white, but once you stepped past that gate to the right, it wasn’t painted at all, except by years of black ash. A flower bed ran the length of the front porch. Fake flowers, pretty and maintenance-free. Balinda replaced them every year— her idea of gardening.
A gray stone statue of some Greek goddess stood on a pedestal to the right of the Parsons’ elm. The front yard was immaculate, the neatest on the street, always had been. Even the beige ’ 59 Plymouth in the driveway had been recently polished so that you could actually see a reflection of the elm in its rear quarter panel. It hadn’t been moved in years. When the Parsons had reason to leave the house, they favored the ancient blue Datsun parked in the garage.
The shades were drawn and the door had no windows, making it impossible to see inside, but Kevin knew the inside better than he knew his own house. Three doors down stood the smaller brown house that had once belonged to a cop named Rick Sheer, who had a daughter named Samantha. Her family had moved back to San Francisco when Sam went off to college.
Kevin wiped his palms on his jeans and climbed out. The sound of his door slamming sounded obscenely loud on the quiet street. The shade on the front window separated momentarily, and then closed. Good. Come on out, Auntie.
Suddenly the whole notion of coming felt absurd. Slater obviously knew his facts, but how would he have knowledge of Bob’s dog? Or that the dog had indeed been Kevin’s best friend until Samantha had come along? Maybe Slater was after Dr. Francis or the priest. Sam had made the call. Smart.
Kevin paused on the sidewalk and stared at the house. What now? Walk up and tell Balinda that someone was about to blow up the dog? He closed his eyes. God, give me strength. You know how I hate this. Maybe he should just leave. If Balinda had a phone, he would have called instead. Maybe he could call the neighbors and—
The door opened and Bob stepped out, grinning from ear to ear. “Hello, Kevin.”
Bob wore a lopsided crew cut, undoubtedly Balinda’s doing. His beige slacks hung a full six inches above a pair of shiny black leather wing tips. His shirt was a dirty white and sported large lapels reminiscent of the seventies.
Kevin grinned. “Hello, Bob. Can I see Damon?”
Bob lit up. “Damon wants to see you, Kevin. He’s been waiting to see you.”
“Is that so? Good, then. Let’s—”
“Bobby, baby!” Balinda’s shrill voice cut through the front door. “You get back in here!” She appeared out of the shadows wearing red high heels and white pantyhose patched up with streaks of clear fingernail polish. Her white dress was lined with age-stained lace embedded haphazardly with a couple dozen fake pearls, the surviving remnant of what had once been hundreds. A large sun hat perched on jet-black hair that looked freshly dyed. A string of gaudy jewels hung around her neck. But it was the white makeup she applied to her sagging face and her bright ruby red lipstick that planted Balinda firmly in the category of the walking dead.
She glared past heavily shadowed lids, studied Kevin for a moment, and then turned up
He passed the houses slowly—the green one, the yellow one, another green one, a beige one—all old, all unique in their own way despite the obvious similarities that came from having a common builder. Same gutters, same windows, same shingle roofs. Kevin locked his eyes on the white house, the fifteenth of the twenty on Baker Street.
Here resides Balinda and Eugene Parson with their thirty-six-year-old retarded son, Bob. Here is the childhood home of one Kevin Parson, adopted son, formerly known as Kevin Little until his mommy and daddy went to heaven.
Five minutes. Okay, Kevin, time’s running out.
He parked the car across the street. A two-foot picket fence ran around the front yard and then rose to six feet for its run around the back. Here the fence was painted brilliant white, but once you stepped past that gate to the right, it wasn’t painted at all, except by years of black ash. A flower bed ran the length of the front porch. Fake flowers, pretty and maintenance-free. Balinda replaced them every year— her idea of gardening.
A gray stone statue of some Greek goddess stood on a pedestal to the right of the Parsons’ elm. The front yard was immaculate, the neatest on the street, always had been. Even the beige ’ 59 Plymouth in the driveway had been recently polished so that you could actually see a reflection of the elm in its rear quarter panel. It hadn’t been moved in years. When the Parsons had reason to leave the house, they favored the ancient blue Datsun parked in the garage.
The shades were drawn and the door had no windows, making it impossible to see inside, but Kevin knew the inside better than he knew his own house. Three doors down stood the smaller brown house that had once belonged to a cop named Rick Sheer, who had a daughter named Samantha. Her family had moved back to San Francisco when Sam went off to college.
Kevin wiped his palms on his jeans and climbed out. The sound of his door slamming sounded obscenely loud on the quiet street. The shade on the front window separated momentarily, and then closed. Good. Come on out, Auntie.
Suddenly the whole notion of coming felt absurd. Slater obviously knew his facts, but how would he have knowledge of Bob’s dog? Or that the dog had indeed been Kevin’s best friend until Samantha had come along? Maybe Slater was after Dr. Francis or the priest. Sam had made the call. Smart.
Kevin paused on the sidewalk and stared at the house. What now? Walk up and tell Balinda that someone was about to blow up the dog? He closed his eyes. God, give me strength. You know how I hate this. Maybe he should just leave. If Balinda had a phone, he would have called instead. Maybe he could call the neighbors and—
The door opened and Bob stepped out, grinning from ear to ear. “Hello, Kevin.”
Bob wore a lopsided crew cut, undoubtedly Balinda’s doing. His beige slacks hung a full six inches above a pair of shiny black leather wing tips. His shirt was a dirty white and sported large lapels reminiscent of the seventies.
Kevin grinned. “Hello, Bob. Can I see Damon?”
Bob lit up. “Damon wants to see you, Kevin. He’s been waiting to see you.”
“Is that so? Good, then. Let’s—”
“Bobby, baby!” Balinda’s shrill voice cut through the front door. “You get back in here!” She appeared out of the shadows wearing red high heels and white pantyhose patched up with streaks of clear fingernail polish. Her white dress was lined with age-stained lace embedded haphazardly with a couple dozen fake pearls, the surviving remnant of what had once been hundreds. A large sun hat perched on jet-black hair that looked freshly dyed. A string of gaudy jewels hung around her neck. But it was the white makeup she applied to her sagging face and her bright ruby red lipstick that planted Balinda firmly in the category of the walking dead.
She glared past heavily shadowed lids, studied Kevin for a moment, and then turned up
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