Finding Thomas’s address was fairly simple. It took about five minutes on the computer to figure out that there were only three people with the last name of Eaves living in our town. What was weird was that it had taken me so long to think to do it. I have no excuse that it was only now coming into my head.
I rode my bike to the first house on the list, which was near Tamaques Park, where we skate sometimes in the winter if it’s cold enough and the ice gets thick enough so you won’t crash through and drown or die of hypothermia or various other tragic consequences of unvarnished nature.
I waited for nearly two hours outside a small, gray, one-story house that needed a new paint job. About ten minutes before I was going to have to leave to get home for dinner, a blue car with a big dent on the right passenger side rolled down the street and turned into the driveway. An old guy with glasses and a cane emerged from the car and shuffled toward the door.
“Excuse me,” I called out. The old man turned and looked toward me as if no one had ever stopped him on his front lawn before. He seemed totally confused by what was happening—not scared or anything, just completely surprised anyone would call out to him like I had. I was standing next to my bike in the gutter. Since I was pretty positive this was the wrong place, it was easy to use the speech I’d prepared. I stepped toward him.
“I’m selling subscriptions for National Geographic Kids magazine and I wonder if you might like to purchase one for the child in your home.” I smiled. I thought the smile was a nice touch.
“There are no kids here, young lady,” he said, and he sort of smiled back at me. It was one of those old-person smiles when their face doesn’t fully cooperate anymore. “My kids are all grown up and have kids older than you.” He actually had a very nice, gentle voice, which, given the way that he had looked at me at first, surprised me.
“Oh well,” I chirped, keeping up the happy saleswoman act. “That’s a shame. I must be on my way to look for another home with children.” I hopped on my bike.
“There are three kids next door.” The old man pointed to the house next to his. There was a soccer ball in the front yard sitting by the bushes, in case I needed proof.
“I’m afraid they’re not on my list,” I shouted over my shoulder as I started to pedal away. Only after I was halfway down the block did it occur to me that it was a good thing he didn’t have children, since I didn’t have a magazine or clipboard or anything else to make it look like I was a genuine salesperson.
The next afternoon I decided to flip a coin about which house on the list to go to next. It was an odd thing to do, given that I had never flipped a coin to decide anything in my life. But I pulled out a quarter, rested it between my bent thumb and forefinger, and sent it up into the air with a flick of my digit. I decided to let it land on the ground instead of catching it—I didn’t want to interfere in any way with what the fates decided. It was tails, so I skipped the second address and went right to number three on the list: 28 Beachwood Place, unit 2B. The unit 2B part was interesting, since there were very few apartment buildings in my town. In fact, I knew no one who lived in an apartment building. The idea of it began to fascinate me. What must it be like to hear your neighbors through the walls, or meet them in the hallway, or open those tiny metal mailboxes by the front door of the building? What happened when you got a large package?
I began to get a very clear image of what the place looked like. But, of course—and by this point I should have known—like all my other premonitions regarding this Thomas person, the image in my mind of his place was completely incorrect.
In reality, the building was part of a complex of three rather small, two-story buildings with a mini–parking lot next to each. From across the street, it looked like there were six buzzers on the front door of number 28. The whole street looked kind of new. It was a really short block that dead-ended in a big circle to turn around in when you came down the street by accident, which was the only reason you would come down it unless you lived in one of these three small apartment buildings or if you were looking for an eight-year-old boy who happened to be related to you.
On the side of the street where I was standing, there were no houses, only a small park with some big trees. What made it a park instead of just a field were the three benches spread out at even intervals. The one I sat on was directly across from number 28.
Another startling fact about this address was that it was exactly six blocks from my own home. Six blocks, and I had never been down this street. I had never even known it existed.
I began to get that feeling between my shoulder blades, the one that makes me so uncomfortable, so I figured I was probably in the right spot. I didn’t have to wait long for proof. The second car to turn down the block made a right into the small parking lot across the street from me. It was a dark green SUV. Not one of those huge, horrible ones; it was actually pretty cute. A sandy-haired woman who looked a little younger than my mom got out of the driver’s seat. Her face was pleasant enough from where I sat, not a beauty or anything, just rather normal. My mother was much prettier. The woman opened the back door and a boy, about eight years old, popped out. There was no lightning bolt or even a shiver down my spine like the other times when I thought I saw him; it was just a kid with dark wavy hair. He was kind of skinny, but not too skinny. He wore blue jeans and a red T-shirt and sneakers. Typical boy’s clothes, no big deal. I couldn’t hear every word, since I was in the park across the street, but you could tell he was in the middle of talking about some TV show or video game or something. His mother was listening, in that parent way of not really listening but occasionally going “uh-huh” and “oh” and things like that. They walked toward the building, she got out her keys, and they went in. The door closed behind them.
I didn’t know what to do next. There was nothing to do. I didn’t feel like going home, so I just sat there. A bird, a sparrow I think, landed on the grass not too far away and started pecking at stuff that only birds can see. Then another one of the same kind of bird landed nearby and started doing the same. You could tell they were together, even though they didn’t even look at each other. I never really spent a lot of time watching birds, but it was actually fascinating seeing them snap their little beaks down into the grass and then yank their heads back up. They’d take a few jerky steps and do it again. They seemed content. It seemed like a good life.
Just then the front door of number 28 opened again and the kid I’d seen came out with a skateboard. He dropped it on the sidewalk with a bang and hopped on it. With his right foot, he pushed off and went zipping down the street toward the turnaround. He went all the way around and then started to come back up the sidewalk on my side. It was odd that there was a sidewalk on my side of the street since there were no houses, but maybe they had been planning to build them on both sides and just ran out of money and so they stuck in a few benches and decided to call it a park. In any event, the kid came up the block in my direction. Pushing off and then coasting, pushing off, then coasting. It looked like he was enjoying himself well enough. He didn’t notice me as he passed. When he got to the end of the street, where it ran into Prospect Avenue, which was a much busier road, he turned around and came back.
“Hey,” I shouted as he was passing. I had no intention of doing this—it just came out.
He looked up, startled, and stumbled off his skateboard. He put his foot on it to keep it from rolling away.
“Oh,” he said. “Hi.”
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Thomas,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“My name is Lucy,” I told him. That name didn’t seem to mean anything to him, so I stood up, got on my bike, and rode the six blocks home.