“Walter. I think they’ve started a commune.”
That was the only explanation she could think of. The running of the minivans had ended. Instead of revving engines and yelling mothers, she now heard screams of laughter coming from the cul-de-sac at all hours of the day and long past dusk.
They all seemed to be gathering at the home of those new people from Minnesota, the ones with all those boys.
Reggie, the retired drill instructor down the street, appeared to be involved too. Every afternoon he led the kids to the end of the cul-de-sac, where they did jumping jacks and calisthenics, and some complicated game involving running, ducking, and dodging that brought broad smiles to the kids’ faces.
She squinted through her binoculars and saw a small gang of children emerging from the Cleaver house, heading down the sidewalk. A little herd of neighbor kids, including those cute little Mondello girls, and the Cleaver boys and Rosamund Hensler’s girl, the one who always wore a cape for some reason.
Lillian’s eyes widened, and she almost dropped the binoculars as they approached her front gate and fiddled with the latch.
Good gracious.They were coming to seeher, like a little band of underage Mormon missionaries.
She stowed the binoculars under the quilt that covered her lap.
The oldest Cleaver boy knocked on her porch post. “Hello, Mrs. Landry,” he said politely.
“Are you selling Boy Scout popcorn?” she asked, squinting down at him from her chair on the porch.
“No ma’am.”
She craned her neck and peered at the little group of children behind him. “Girl Scout Cookies?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?” she asked, sounding more unfriendly than she’d intended.
“We want to interview you,” one of the little kids said.
“Me?” The words came out in a surprised squeak. In all her eighty-seven years, no one had ever interviewed her before. There was truly a first time for everything.
“We’re working on a project for school,” the Hensler girl said. She had blue hair, in addition to her cape. She looked like a forest elf.
“But not real school. It’shome school,” one of the kids said.
“I see.” Lillian nodded gravely. “Well, sit down and tell me about it.”
The kids sprawled across the floor or took seats on the porch swing. Her son had installed it two years ago, but she never sat in it. The motion made her seasick. This might be the first time anyone had actually swung on her porch swing.
The youngest Mondello girl gazed up at her from the floor. “You look like you’re a hundred years old.”
“Almost.” Lillian smiled. “I’m eighty-seven. How old are you?”
“I’m seven.” They all giggled.
“What do you want to interview me about?” Lillian asked.
“The olden days,” the littlest boy from Minnesota said.
“The neighborhood,” his older brother clarified.
“We’re doing historical research,” the Hensler girl added importantly.
“I see.” Lillian settled back in her rocking chair. “Well, I’ve lived here for fifty-eight years, so I’ve seen a lot of changes. What do you want to know?”
It had been a long time since anyone had asked what she thought, or recognized that she had something valuable to offer. Sometimes, if you weren’t on TikBook or Facegram, society kind of left you behind.
More and more lately, her family seemed to think of her as a project to be managed, not someone whose company could be enjoyed.
