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“I bet it’s a nice apartment,” my father said.
Bertie forked into his pot roast. “Suits me. I don’t have far to go after work. When I want to take off there’s no maintenance to worry about.”
Grandma brought the gravy to the table. “That’s important, because Bertie’s a free spirit, like me.”
“Yep,” Bertie said. “That’s why Edna and I get along. We understand each other. We’re a couple rollin’ stones.”
We all looked over at Grandma. She didn’t usually roll very far. Mostly to the bakery and the funeral home.
“Bertie and I are thinking about taking a vacation on his chopper,” Grandma said. “We might go to Mexico.”
“That’s a long way to go on a chopper,” I said. “Have you ever ridden on the chopper?”
“No,” Grandma said, “but we’re going out tonight after dinner. Bertie’s going to take me for a ride.”
“You’re going to love it,” Bertie said. “There’s nothing like it.”
My mother looked into her glass. It was empty. “I might need more iced tea,” she said.
• • •
We all stood on my parents’ small front porch and watched Grandma mount the chopper in her powder blue polyester pantsuit and white tennies. She put a big black helmet on and wrapped her arms around Bertie.
“Woohoo!” Grandma said. “Here we go.”
“She’s going to die,” my mother said.
My father looked hopeful.
Bertie fired up the bike, and it gave a lurch and rolled down the street.
“She’ll be fine,” I said to my mom. I didn’t totally believe it, but it seemed like the thing to say.
“You should follow her,” my mother said.
“I’ll keep my eyes open for them,” I told her, taking my car keys out of my messenger bag.
It was true that I would watch for them, but I wouldn’t follow them. They were out of sight, and I had no idea where they were going. And I had plans of my own. I wanted to ride by Butchy’s house one more time.
I had my usual bag of leftovers in the crook of my arm and my messenger bag hanging from my shoulder. I marched to my car and settled myself behind the wheel. So far so good. No one made a parting comment on the dent. I waved to my parents as I backed out of the driveway. My father was smiling and shaking his head. My mother was grim-faced, lips pressed tight together. I sighed and drove away.
It was twilight when I got back to King Street. Not yet dark enough to creep around Butchy’s house and peek in his windows. I parked on the opposite side of the street, two houses down, and waited. Butchy’s truck was still in his driveway. Lights were on in the front room. A light went on in another room toward the back of the house, and I guessed Butchy had gone to the kitchen. All the other houses on the street were lit too. Traffic was minimal. Every driveway had a car parked in it. Garages in the Burg were for the most part used to store items that should have been thrown away ten years ago. Cars with dead batteries and flat tires, rusted bicycles, the sofa the dog chewed up and the cat peed on. Plus there were lawn mowers, snow shovels, Costco economy packs of bottled water and paper products, hoses and sprinklers, and cases of motor oil.
I checked in with Morelli. “What’s up?”
“I couldn’t get the game in on your television, so Bob and I are at my house. Did your mom pack a leftovers bag for me?”
“Pot roast for sandwiches, Italian bread from the bakery, half a chocolate cake, plus some stuff in the bottom of the bag. I think she threw in some apples.”
“You’re coming over, right?”
“Right. Give me a half hour.”
I waited ten more minutes, left my car, and walked to Butchy’s house. There were two windows on the driveway side, which was now in deep shadow, so I walked toward them. Probably bedroom windows. I stood on tiptoes and peeked in. The shades weren’t drawn, but the room was dark and I couldn’t see much. I went to the garage and tested the door. Locked. I circled around to the window on the side. It had security bars on it, and the glass had been painted black.
I had an instant image of a large freezer sitting inside surrounded by empty jugs of chocolate syrup and chopped nuts.
I moved on to the back of the house, crept quietly onto the back stoop, and looked in the back-door window at the kitchen. Part of the room was given over to an eating area with a table and four chairs. There was a large cardboard box on the table. I couldn’t see the contents. There were a couple dishes and some glasses in the dish drain by the sink. Dated electric stove and refrigerator freezer. Small toaster oven on the counter. A roll of paper towels. A loaf of supermarket bread, a jar of peanut butter, and an open package of Chips Ahoy! cookies were lined up next to the paper towels. I thought to myself that Butchy kept a Spartan kitchen, and then I realized it looked a lot like mine. This dragged another sigh out of me.
