That was fast, thought Maureen, as she recognized Naomi's scream. How could it be that a new neighbor, less than a week on the Avenue, could be facing peril again, such that she would scream for help and be instantly recognizable?
Maureen had been dozing in a green plastic lawn chair, contemplating her tomato plants, when she heard Naomi. The Friday afternoon was warm, reassuring to Maureen, who had planted her tomatoes and peppers the week earlier. Though she never put it into words, and rarely into thoughts, her garden was important. The spring planting, the summer watering and waiting, and August bounty of tomatoes and peppers reflected order in what often looked like a random and chaotic universe. While each summer brought a challenge -- bunnies, blight, the groundhog Dylan had named Garth -- there was a certainty to the process. Seeds, sun and water yielded plants. No more, no less.
The garden plot was the same each year, the same sunny side of the yard that her grandfather had planted before her, staked out when Orange Heights was a smaller town, and very different. In the 1930s, when her great-grandfather worked for the railroad, the family lived next to the tracks. When the train whistle blew, her great-grandfather rushed out of the tiny house to release the barriers on Orange Heights Avenue, which stopped pedestrian and horse traffic and allowed the train to pass safely. The rush of the train's iron wheels on the metal tracks rattled the windows of the house, and the downtown noises of horses, carriages, and trade meant noise, always noise. No wonder he sought another neighborhood, once he had a dollar or two in his pocket.
Maureen listened for sounds from within her house, knowing that her mother was resting and Dylan dozing in front of television after the morning's adventure. Nothing.
She looked for smoke rising from Naomi's house. Nothing.
Could one woman be caught twice in the same day in her own basement, wondered Maureen. And if so, what could she, Maureen, do about it?
Nothing, she told herself, settling back into her lawn chair. She made herself comfortable, ignoring the tiny flare of conscience from within.
"She's okay, I'm sure," said Maureen aloud to a passing stray cat. "What could go wrong on Orange Heights Avenue?"
Maureen had been dozing in a green plastic lawn chair, contemplating her tomato plants, when she heard Naomi. The Friday afternoon was warm, reassuring to Maureen, who had planted her tomatoes and peppers the week earlier. Though she never put it into words, and rarely into thoughts, her garden was important. The spring planting, the summer watering and waiting, and August bounty of tomatoes and peppers reflected order in what often looked like a random and chaotic universe. While each summer brought a challenge -- bunnies, blight, the groundhog Dylan had named Garth -- there was a certainty to the process. Seeds, sun and water yielded plants. No more, no less.
The garden plot was the same each year, the same sunny side of the yard that her grandfather had planted before her, staked out when Orange Heights was a smaller town, and very different. In the 1930s, when her great-grandfather worked for the railroad, the family lived next to the tracks. When the train whistle blew, her great-grandfather rushed out of the tiny house to release the barriers on Orange Heights Avenue, which stopped pedestrian and horse traffic and allowed the train to pass safely. The rush of the train's iron wheels on the metal tracks rattled the windows of the house, and the downtown noises of horses, carriages, and trade meant noise, always noise. No wonder he sought another neighborhood, once he had a dollar or two in his pocket.
Maureen listened for sounds from within her house, knowing that her mother was resting and Dylan dozing in front of television after the morning's adventure. Nothing.
She looked for smoke rising from Naomi's house. Nothing.
Could one woman be caught twice in the same day in her own basement, wondered Maureen. And if so, what could she, Maureen, do about it?
Nothing, she told herself, settling back into her lawn chair. She made herself comfortable, ignoring the tiny flare of conscience from within.
"She's okay, I'm sure," said Maureen aloud to a passing stray cat. "What could go wrong on Orange Heights Avenue?"
