By the time I got home, it was dark. I’d used a bungee cord to strap the lightning maker to the back of the seat for the ride home. Bags are a problem on a motorcycle. The trick is not to buy much. These days, I had a car too, but it was parked on the street. I didn’t use it very often. It had surprisingly few miles on it for an old car. I parked my bike on one side of the garage next to Robin’s car.
I was going to go inside, but at the last second, I decided not to. Instead, I walked down to the 7-Eleven to get some ice cream. There was music on, of course. This one had strong enough associations to require earplugs, but I decided to Just grab something quick and hurry home as fast as possible. The song was “We Can Work It Out” by the Beatles. As ever, it brought an instant lump to my throat. First, there was the song itself, a guy trying to convince his girlfriend to stay, because life is short. Then there was the image of my brother and a new guitar that he had saved up for. He could play very well for a ninth-grader. There was no doubt in anybody’s mind that he would one day be every bit as good on that guitar as George Harrison, his favorite Beatle. I defy you to get through even one day of normal life without hearing some version somewhere of some Beatle song. If you think you’ve done it, you probably were not paying attention. Whether you acknowledge it or not, those songs are in you, and even on the rare day when you don’t hear one on a radio or a PA, you hear it in your head, your heart, your soul.
Now I had a pint of Heath Bar Crunch in one hand and a pint of Mud Pie Madness in the other, and I was telling myself, “Decide!” when a bright orange shape caught my eye. It was Jeanette, my elderly upstairs neighbor. Tonight she was wearing a ski parka, even though it was only slightly cool. The jacket was a castoff from some kid, judging from the look and size of it. She was leaning on her aluminum walker and staring intently at a can of nuts, concentrating so hard that she didn’t notice me. I backed up and went around the magazines to the cashier so I wouldn’t have to talk to Jeanette and could get away fast from the song.
I was just getting my change when her sharp voice zinged right through my eardrums. “Well, don’t say hi or anything!” I nearly jumped out of my skin. Jeanette’s voice was another reason for earplugs, which were lying unused in my pocket. I think the last time I heard that phrase was junior high.
I turned around and acted surprised. “Oh, hello, Jeanette! What are you doing here at this hour?”
She held up the can. “Have to have my peanuts! I was all out! Midnight snack! Had to make sure they’re not low-salt! They’re not!” She said everything loudly, as if every sentence were a surprising announcement, like “I won!” or “It’s twins!” She hurt my ears. She smelled like a combination of fabric softener and green Life Savers. It wasn’t a bad smell, just distinctive.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, good night!” You had to be abrupt with Jeanette or before you knew it, you were in the middle of a long, long story about something that had happened in the 1930s on the way to her piano lesson or about the trash the gardener found in the bushes this morning. Jeanette had a lot of material to draw on. I picked up my bag and started quickly for the door. I still had the lightning maker with me, and I was eager to get home and plug it in.
“Wait a second!” said the girl at the register. I turned around, expecting to find that I’d left my wallet on the counter. But there was nothing, Just the cashier glaring at me.
“What?” I said. “Me?”
“You have to walk her home! God! It’s dark. Don’t you guys live, like, right by each other? Walk her home!”
“Thank you,” Jeanette said, smiling at me, as if I’d offered.
I glared at the girl. She busied herself straightening the packages of beef jerky standing up in a jar and didn’t look at me. Next time I was in here, I would make sure to tell that girl that Jeanette was more than capable of walking home or any number of other places with no help from anybody. And furthermore, the girl had no business inflicting neighbors on one another. She had no idea, none whatsoever, how many long, pointless, boring stories Jeanette had up her baggy old sleeve. In seventeen years, probably more years than the girl had spent on this planet, I had listened to way more than my share of them.
I waited for Jeanette at the door. I held it open for her with one foot. The Beatles were finishing up, reminding me again about life being short, but they obviously had never met Jeanette. As she was shuffling through the door with her walker, I glared back at the girl behind the counter, one more try at punishing her. She was busy looking through a magazine about hairstyles and refused to look up and take the wrath of my burning stare, even though she knew she had it coming. All the way home, Jeanette told me about the school she had worked in for thirty years. She had walked this very same way every morning and evening on her way to and from work. “This was before the fitness craze! We only had one car! My husband took it to work! Every day, rain or shine, I’d walk! I didn’t mind it one bit! Some of those kids, even the itty-bitty ones, are grandparents now! Can you believe that? And here I am walking down the very same street. I’m lucky, that’s what! Lucky to be healthy and living on my own all this time!”
Whenever she’d pause, I’d think I was supposed to say something. I’d say, “You sure are” or “That’s right.” And then she would go on. One time I didn’t say anything, just to see if it had any effect on the conversation. It didn’t. After about the same amount of pause time, she went on with her story anyway. So I didn’t bother anymore with the filler comments. Jeanette didn’t need me at all. If I had managed to escape from the store, she might have told these exact same stories without me. When I first moved in, I thought of Jeanette as an old, old lady. She would be outside in a giant straw hat, squatting in the dirt, planting flowers in front of the house. Back then, I used to think that she would die any minute because she looked so ancient. She was in her early seventies when I first moved in. Now she rarely came downstairs, let alone planted anything. Her children were in their sixties. As the kids in the neighborhood grew bigger, Jeanette seemed to shrink. Her dresses were baggy, loose things now that she had to fold and cinch with a belt. She didn’t even have a cane when I first moved in, and now she had a walker.
She used to be the secretary of the public elementary school down the street. I think that was how she got so good, at watching and listening to everything that was going on, staying informed without being told anything. If you bought anything new, Jeanette would call down from her door, “How much did you pay for that?” as you carried it in from the car. After you told her, she would let you know where you could have gotten it cheaper, if only you’d come to her first. If you brought anybody home, Jeanette would provide an uninvited assessment: “The prettiest ones don’t stay, you know” or “She’s going to starve to death if she doesn’t eat something. And I mean today!” Often, she had instructed me, “Just pick one and marry her. One of these days, if you’re lucky, you’re going to be as old as I am. And believe me, you won’t always have so many to choose from.”
Finally, we reached the house. It seemed like hours since we’d left the store. “You’ve been awfully quiet,” she said. “The strong silent type! Now, run up there with my walker, would you? Thank you, dear.”
I did. I didn’t actually run. I took the steps two at a time, though, as I wanted this to be over with as soon as possible, and it had been annoying to walk so slowly.
When I got back downstairs, Jeanette was only on the second step, grasping the banister with both hands.
“See you, Jeanette,” I called without waiting to hear her answer.
By the time I got into my apartment, my ice cream was squishy.
Without turning on another light, I plugged in my lightning maker. I stood watching it, eating my ice cream out of the container.