“You like the flowers?” Mr. Hawthorne asked, chuckling. “They’re called bellflowers, I planted them earlier this spring. Do you like them? Are they pretty?”
Preston watched his neighbor, relief flooding the inside of his stomach. “I like them,” he said cautiously, hoping that his liking Mr. Hawthorne’s flowers meant he wouldn’t tell his mother he’d been trespassing.
“Why thank you,” he replied with false importance, coming closer to Preston he knelt next to the flowers, touching one of the soft petals and bending to sniff. “They smell like a garden all by themselves. You know, I have a really nice garden in back if you ever want to take a look. A gardener comes every week, he planted that one, but this little garden up here I did myself.”
“That’s okay, I should go,” Preston replied, aware that it was not all right to just go into the backyard of a stranger, even if the front was a no-man’s land it would be hard to punish him for entering.
“I’m Mr. Hawthorne, by the way, Gregory Hawthorne,” his neighbor properly introduced himself, holding out his hand in a way that might have been professional if it weren’t so forced.
“I’m Preston,” he replied cautiously. He took the man’s hand, it was cold and thin, swallowing Preston’s palm whole.
“You know my housekeeper just made some cookies, they’re chocolate chip. She made a whole batch, even though I told her to just make a few, a man like myself can’t be eating all those cookies. Would you like to come in for one? It would really help me out, you know, they’re not good for my figure and all.”
“That’s okay,” Preston replied, remembering Peyton and Eva, who were probably looking for him. “I need to find my friends.”
“Are you sure?” Mr. Hawthorne asked. “They’re just cookies. I won’t tell your mother you were here,” he went on, winking.
Preston considered for a second. He’d heard stories of child abductions, his mother had told him not to talk to strangers, but a stranger was a man in a black coat, a gruff voice in the dark and this was just a guy who liked flowers. Sharing a few cookies with his neighbor did not seem like a part of a sinister plan. “Okay,” he said, taking one whiff of the air, hoping he’d catch the scent of the flowers as Mr. Hawthorne stood to let him inside.
“You know my mother used to make cookies for me when I was a little boy. I guess I never got over it. When you grow up you’re supposed to outgrow stuff like sweets, but why would you ever want to do that? Why forget things you love just because you get old?” Mr. Hawthorne laughed at himself, though Preston hadn’t found him particularly funny.
It smelled a sugary pink in the living room, like a gingerbread house in a fairy tale. There was a big TV in the front room and a video game system lying on an end table next to a bunch of game cartridges. A framed poster of Larry Bird was hung up next to the system, and as Preston walked further into the house he noted that there were taped up pictures of people from television, of basketball and football players, all over the house, which reminded him of a larger version of his own bedroom.
“Here, the cookies are in the kitchen, we don’t have to eat in the dining room, too formal,” Mr. Hawthorne said and Preston did not understand how a dining room with posters of sports stars hung up in it could be too formal for anything. “I’ll get you some milk. Do you want milk, kiddo?” He said the last part, calling him kiddo, a little falsely.
“Sure,” Preston replied, holding his hands in front of him, sticky, sweaty fingers knotting together. “Thank you,” he added as he entered Mr. Hawthorne’s kitchen. It was a heightened version of his own kitchen, almost the same, but more like it had come out of one of those magazines his mother sometimes left out on the counter. No taped up posters here, just the cooking necessities or niceties. It was painted white with an island in the middle; there was a large, silver refrigerator with a water dispenser that had a bunch of blue lit-up buttons around it. Silver pots dangled from a rack hanging from the ceiling and there were a bunch of metal appliances on the granite counter. Despite the kitchen’s neatness, someone had been working in there, spoons and measuring cups littered a flour-covered cutting board and the sink was filled with dishes, just the way he left the kitchen half the time after his mother asked him to help her clean it.
The stairs from the basement started creaking and Preston almost jumped when he saw a woman come up them. She looked like the kind of person who might live in a basement with a raw-looking face and ratty too-red hair that was obviously dyed. A large wart was stuck to her cheek as if it came from a Halloween costume, and there were lines near her eyes and mouth. She smiled when she saw Preston, though it seemed that her face almost cracked. “Hello,” she said with an accent he could not place. She sounded like the villains in his father’s old James Bond movies. “How are you today young man?” she looked down at Preston as if she were scrutinizing him. “I just made cookies, please, you should have some. A growing boy like you, you will not spoil your dinner.” Preston found it funny that she knew what time his dinner was, about an hour from now, as long as his father got home on time.
“All right,” was all Preston could say, stepping backwards and nearly walking into a life-size cut out of The Cage King, the villain in a video game Preston used to play with Peyton a few years ago.
“Sorry about that,” Mr. Hawthorne said, righting the cutout as Preston stepped away from it. “I’m a collector. I should put it upstairs.”
“I am going to head home,” the lady said, turning around on her heels. “I just wanted to make sure someone was home. Gregory, I will see you tomorrow, OK? Feed the child my cookies, you will make sure, please?”
“Sure, see you,” Mr. Hawthorne replied casually, waving as she turned down the steps, leaving through the basement. “That was Mary Clark,” he explained. “She made the cookies, she cooks for me. A very nice lady that one. She reminds me of Hilda Handblast, I watch that show all the time,” he went on, laughing at himself. Hilda Handblast, Preston knew, was a character in Autowarriors, a cartoon about toy cars that save their owner’s house from the evil band of toy trucks that live next door. He’d watched that cartoon when he was eight, but now that he was ten he had outgrown it.
“OK,” was all Preston could say as he followed Mr. Hawthorne into the kitchen.
“This place is not kid proofed,” he explained as he glanced toward the knife-set sitting a few feet from the stools lining one side of the counter. “I don’t get many visitors. It’s almost five o’clock; I don’t want to spoil your dinner so why don’t I just give you a couple cookies? They just came out of the oven, that’s when they’re the best,” Mr. Hawthorne offered, picking a cookie up off a metal cooling rack.
Mr. Hawthorne set the cookie on a blue porcelain plate with delicate white etchings. It did not look like it belonged in a house with cutouts of video game villains in it. This kitchen seemed to be an island of adulthood in this house that had never grown up. The plate was almost too nice to eat off of and Preston nearly said so, but Mr. Hawthorne was being so kind, he didn’t want to offend him. “You can’t have cookies without milk,” he said, taking a quart from his fridge. “Unless you have any allergies?” he asked last second.
“No I don’t, thank you,” Preston replied, taking a sip of the milk once it had been set before him. Mr. Hawthorne took a cookie off the rack as well, eating it from his hand and not bothering with a plate. This was how Preston ate cookies at home. Even if his mother put a plate out for him he was always carrying his food around, “constantly dragging crumbs from one corner of the house to another,” his mother always said.
“Do you like them?” Mr. Hawthorne asked, taking another bite.
“I do,” Preston replied, not wanting to make a face as he chewed. The cookies tasted off, not bad, just off. He finished one cookie and took another out of politeness.
“Tastes