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Rhyme had tried to categorize Dellray’s syntax, grammar and patois. It was not possible.
“The Watchmaker.”
A silence descended. A rarity with Dellray. “Well …”
“Yes, Fred. I know what he’s here for.”
“Keep this line open. I’m headin’ west, where my fearless colleagues’re hiding out from falling cranes. Be right back.”
The lanky man vanished.
22.
ABBY WAS WATERINGthe gardenias, in a hanging basket on the porch, when she heard the noise.
What was that?
A pop.
It was coming from the neighbor’s house.
The forty-four-year-old mother of three and part-time librarian looked across the narrow strips of side yards to the bungalow that was almost identical to the one she and her husband owned—identical to many of them, actually, in this part of Queens. Only, the next-door couple had gone with red trim, not yellow.
Abby decided she liked red better, but would never go to the expense of painting something that didn’t need to be painted. How stupid was that? Besides, that’d look like she did it because the neighbors had and even though that was true, she didn’t want anybody tothinkit was true.
Pop.
Her eyes on the bungalow, wondering about the sound. She was thinking what a time they’ve been through, the folks wholived there. The poor husband, the construction worker who’d nearly died in that terrible crane incident that morning.
Abby’s hubby, Tim, was a mechanic at Harbey’s Automotive—yes, not Harvey’s—and had never been in any danger even during the fire.
And the pregnant wife? Going to drop at any minute.
What a time …
One pour for you, she thought to the largest of the hanging plants—secretly her favorite.
One pour for you.
Good drinks, everybody.
Abby loved her plants. She talked to them and believed they did better because of the conversation.
She looked at their house once more.
Wait, what was that?
She was alarmed. Smoke? Was there a fire?
Grabbing her phone, she started to dial 911. Then she paused. No. She realized she was looking at the bathroom. It was steam. A few wisps slid from the partially open window and vanished quickly. And there was no smoke anywhere else.
That’s all it was. Steam.
She herself just loved hot baths.
Abby walked into the kitchen and filled her watering can once again. She walked through the house, careful not to spill on the carpet, and out the door to the front porch, where four more plants waited.
“One pour for you,” she said. And turning to the others, she whispered, “Just be patient. It’s almost your turn.”
