The sun shines on my back and I hunch over sprouted vegetables in the garden I planted months earlier. The tomatoes are glowing red, perfect for picking. Although they still cling to the vine, warm with sunshine, I can already taste their sweetness in my mouth. My thoughts turn to what I will serve alongside them at that night’s dinner.
Corn on the cob. Barbecued hamburgers and veggie burgers with toasted buns. Potato salad. Coleslaw. Milk.
The cross necklace I replaced around my neck hangs forward, dancing in the sunlight as I weed the rich earth that surrounds the vegetables of my labour. It tickles my neck, and I feel the weight of its presence.
My legs go numb with lack of blood flow from a position held for too long. I shift. Stretch. Try to lose the feeling of sharp prickles tickling my nerve endings. I stand, stretching further, enjoying the warmth of summer.
I glance at the worn watch on my left wrist; it is shortly after five o’clock. I walk over the freshly cut lawn to the front of the house where I notice new neighbours moving into the house across the street. The woman is directing dressers, chairs and toy boxes, carried by the movers, into the house. Her blonde hair is held back in a ponytail and her brow is creased in stress.
I smile. Wave. Make a mental note to bring them lasagna in the coming days.
She sees my gesture and makes her way towards me. She introduces herself as Beth, telling me they have four kids, all under the age of twelve. Her husband is Bernie.
“Do you have any children?” Beth asks. I pause before answering, wondering what her response might be. It’s always different.
“We do. Just one though. He’s over there,” I point to the giggling group of kids coming from our next door neighbour’s lawn, and watch as Bu runs in circles around two of his friends. His dark skin is contrasted against the pale blue sky and, as it so often does, reminds me of days from long ago.
“Which one is yours?”
“Bu, come over here and meet someone!” I call out to him. I raise my gaze and shield my eyes from the sun. Bu runs over and graciously shakes Beth’s hand. He is a sweet boy for a seven-year-old. So wise and mature beyond his few short years.
“Boo? That’s an interesting name. Is his real name Arthur?”
“Sorry?”
“Boo Radley. His real name was Arthur Radley. In To Kill a Mockingbird?”
“Oh, right. Well, no, it’s just Bu. Spelled B-U.” I grab hold of his shoulders with my right arm, rubbing his head before he runs back to play with his friends. I smile again at Beth and continue, “I’m not sure if you’ve heard or not, but there’s a street party this Saturday. It’s our fourth year in a row and they’re always a ton of fun. I hope you can make it — it would be a great way for you to meet all of the neighbours. It starts at four o’clock. Hamburgers, hot dogs and veggie burgers are provided. You just need to bring a salad or dessert to share. And there are fireworks when it gets dark.”
Beth assures me they will be there and turns to retake her post as official furniture navigator. Within moments, her four children arrive with Bernie, who drives a red minivan into their new driveway and parks alongside Beth’s black Suburban. I am happy to see that one of the children getting out of the sliding door is a boy about Bu’s age.
I make my way to our front door, realizing Eric will be home in an hour. Before I reach the porch, I hear his Land Rover pull into the driveway. He waves from the driver seat, smiling. I take in the sight of him, his tie pulled loose and the jacket of his suit tossed casually over the back seat of the passenger chair.
“Why are you home so early?” I call out, walking towards him. I let him whisk me into an oversized bear hug. He brushes dirt from my cheek and, for a moment, I am embarrassed that Beth saw me dirt-covered.
“I want to spend some quality time with my family, so I thought I’d leave the foundation early and come home. After all, you took the day off . . . so I figured I’d follow suit.” Eric smiles and pulls me in for a long kiss. Thoughts of Beth leave my mind.
“Well, I’m glad you did. Leave early, that is. It’s so nice to have you home.”
Eric responds, whispering into my hair. “It’s nice to be home.”