Michael’s clients came out of hibernation all at once, as if they’d spent the entire winter dreaming of nothing but their precious summer-home lawns. His phone lit up with calls from Boston, New Jersey, Connecticut, and New York. His clients wanted everything yesterday: new annuals, thicker grass, stone patios, and, of course, puffy blue hydrangeas as big as pompons.
Unfortunately for them (and for Michael), their wish lists were piling up because of the weather. It had been a brutal spring, with a couple of freak nor’easters that locked the Cape in ice and pounded the bluffs, leaving the ground as hard as concrete. Some of his clients wanted him to risk it and put the plantings in early, but Michael patiently refused. There had been some unusually warm days, but he’d lived on the Cape long enough to believe in the “Three Icemen” Ed had told him about long ago. Ed said that just when you thought winter was over, there would be three more bouts of bad weather, or “visits” from the icemen. Michael waited, and just like every year, Ed’s theory was rock solid. The third iceman hit late in March.
Now the ice was finally gone, the earth was soft, and the weather was warmer, but the forecast called for heavy rain that would wash away whatever grass seed the birds hadn’t eaten. Michael didn’t have time for rain. Shelby, Deeds, and Avery were in Santa Fe for a well-deserved vacation before the summer season kicked into full gear and the renters descended in droves. Michael had to deal with their inn—taking reservations, assembling a cleaning crew, and fixing the broken window in the corner unit—and, of course, he had plenty of his own landscaping work. And then there was Anibitz. His company wasn’t unlike a bright but troubled teenager with the kind of potential to become either a heroin addict or a Harvard grad. There was some kind of bullshit trademark dispute he needed to address, lawyers he had to call. He’d gotten used to having a partner at the landscaping business; he wished he had a partner in Anibitz. It was too much.
But what really bothered him was Poppy.
A few days ago, he’d been poking around the house the way he usually did. He wanted to see if any more furniture had been cleared out, and he’d brought a bag with him so he could take a few things he wanted to keep for himself, just in case. He filled it with a few of Ed’s records, some of Connie’s books, and the Yahtzee game they’d played so many times that first summer he’d lived with the Gordons. The score sheets still had Poppy’s doodles and Ann’s careful math.
He was looking through Connie’s bedside table, hoping to find a piece of her jewelry to pass along to Avery—nothing fancy or expensive; Connie’s jewelry was the stuff you’d buy at a craft fair. She had lots of leather, rocks, and beads. He cringed with embarrassment when he saw an almost-empty bottle of lubrication gel. He heard a noise, and when he looked outside he saw Poppy standing next to a beat-up old Honda Civic.
Poppy!
She stared off into space, deep in thought, like always. Her reverie bought him some time. He snuck into Connie and Ed’s closet, where he inhaled the musty smell of Ed’s big Pendleton wool shirts and Connie’s cardigan sweaters. The smell alone was almost too much for him. In the dark, he listened to Poppy’s footsteps, the thunk of her suitcase. He heard her call out for Ann and Noah. Who was Noah? Was that Ann’s kid, or did Ann have a husband?
When he heard the door shut, he made a run for the sunporch. Just before he ran outside, he paused and considered that this might be the last time he’d ever be able to enter the house. He looked around and jumped up, grabbing one of the ace playing cards nailed to the wall above the door. It came off easily, the nail clattering to the floor.
He stuffed it in the large pocket of his windbreaker and darted outside, wincing when the screen door bumped against the frame when he shut it. He hid behind an old oak tree, sweating and light-headed, watching as the lights went on in each room. He saw Poppy looking out of the windows—she’d heard him, he could tell. After a few minutes, he darted for the barn, figuring she wouldn’t ever look for him there. The door slid open and he gently closed it behind him, his heart thumping wildly in his ears. He felt crazed—what was it about this house, this family? About seeing his old friend Poppy again?
The barn was almost completely dark. It was now dusk. Michael peered beyond the small window and saw Poppy pull some boxes out of her trunk, hesitate, sigh, look around—did she see him? He ducked. When he rose again, he saw the back door close properly thanks to the hinges he’d replaced a few years earlier; that door had never hung right, so he’d used Ed’s plane on the bottom edge. That was perhaps his boldest and most obvious home improvement.
He slumped to the floor. Once his eyes adjusted, he noticed all the familiar tools on the pegboard, the old ham cans filled with screws, nails, and bits, jars of oil, and dirty old rags. He remembered what Ed had told him: “After I kick the bucket, these tools will be yours.”
In the corner, he saw the old white refrigerator from the 1950s with the sleek, long perpendicular handle that looked like an exclamation mark, and proud, silver letters spelling out A-D-M-I-R-A-L across the front. “No wasted space!” That’s what Ed had said whenever he opened it up to grab one of the Point beers he’d brought with him from Wisconsin. Michael could vividly remember the afternoons he’d spent with Ed in the barn, and the story Ed told him about how his mother had begged his father for the refrigerator after she’d seen an ad touting all the food-storage potential in the door. “No wasted space!”
The machine was unplugged and felt dead. He looked inside, and in the light coming through the window, he saw the two cans of beer that might have been there for a decade tucked into the door. It was strange: that was when the news of Ed’s death really hit him, when he realized Ed would never return to drink them. Michael backed away from the refrigerator the way a boxer might back off after a blow. Without bothering to shut the door, he slipped out of the barn and disappeared into the trees.
Now, still wounded, he parked his truck in front of a pile of pavers behind the landscaping building and took a sip of coffee from his thermos. He had a nervous twitch in his right eye from thinking that soon he’d have to confront Ann and Poppy and insist his way back into the family.
Jason was in a fit when Michael walked in.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.
“Oh Jesus,” Jason said. “The Shaws’ house. I just checked on it.” He had a way of saying “Shaw” that made the name sound much more complicated than it was—Shawerer. “Should have gone sooner. Damn pipes froze. Place is a goddamn disaster.”
“Thermostat?”
“Nah, I change the batteries out every fall. Furnace is only a few years old. Beats me what happened. Place is ruined, man. That asshole’s going to rip me a new one when I tell him.”
“That’s what insurance is for.”
“I guess.”
Michael took a bite of an apple. It tasted sweeter than usual. “Karma’s a bitch,” Michael said, careful not to look Jason in the eyes.
Jason began to laugh. Michael knew that was how he’d respond.
He turned and pretended to reach for something in his drawer in order to allow himself a small, private smile. Mission accomplished.