Peter sat on the living room couch, still in his pajamas, somewhere between the state of sleep and wakefulness. His father was leaving on another one of his business trips, and Peter always liked to see him off.
In addition to his growing number of lists, Peter kept a running tab of three additional things, all on his desk calendar in his room. For each day of rainless sunshine, he drew an orange circle under the date, which was now fifty-nine in a row and counting. He drew a black circle on the days he had seizures. And recently he’d started keeping track of the days his father was away on business with blue circles, which wasn’t as consistent as the orange circles, but not too far behind either.
“The fruitcakes are up early,” Nick noted, peering over the couch and out the window facing the street.
Peter didn’t need to look; he knew his father was talking about Mr. James and Mr. Terry, the neighbors across the street. His father was always calling them a variation of the word fruit: fruit sticks, fruit platters, fruit loops, etc.
Nick rolled his eyes. Dressed in pressed khaki slacks and a plain black T-shirt, arguably a size too small, he felt confident in what he called his “business travel” attire. In one of the many men’s magazines he devoured religiously—especially now that he could actually afford a $300 pair of brown leather loafers—he’d read that “confidence radiation” was mandatory in a CEO, and a CEO was what he was since he’d opened his business, though he only had four employees. He checked his confidence radiation level as he caressed his freshly shaven head and patted his abs. The constant maintenance to look good was a necessary evil, especially now that he was pushing forty, but he read he couldn’t radiate confidence with a horseshoe hairline and a doughy body. He packed his salmon dress shirt with a matching tie in his carry-on for his trip to Colorado.
“I guess the Fruit Roll-Ups think they’re above everyone else,” Nick said, nodding to the window as he zipped his carry-on and threw it over his shoulder.
This made Peter rise from the couch and nose close to the window.
Mr. Terry’s short and portly frame scooted back and forth across his lawn like a plastic duck in a shooting gallery. Sweat pasted his fire-engine red silk pajamas to his body.
“He said he had very expensive flowers in his garden that he had to water or they’d die,” Peter said, trying not to sound too much like he was defending him.
“He’s not watering his very expensive flowers, Peter.”
Sure enough, at closer look, Mr. Terry held a garden hose discreetly lodged into his ribcage, dragging behind him like a tail. His head swiveled up and down the block, further indicting himself and his actions. It sure seemed Mr. Terry was fully aware of breaking the county’s moratorium on water usage that had been enforced since the drought had caused the water reserve to sink dangerously low.
Peter refused to hold this against him. He liked Mr. Terry.
“And how do you know about his very expensive flowers? What, are you buddies now with the fruits?”
“No,” Peter said, with such force that he felt an instant and solitary guilt, betraying two of the small number of people in Willow Creek who were friendly to him. He couldn’t help it. Anytime his father spoke with such disdain, Peter’s response was knee-jerk.
Abby appeared behind them, her hair messy from sleep and still in her robe. She yawned and shuffled to the kitchen for coffee.
“What day you coming back, Nick?”
“Friday, if nothing pops up.”
“Are you expecting things to pop up, Nick?” she asked, her voice quickly losing the early morning lubrication.
Nick looked away from the window to stare coldly at his wife’s back. “Don’t start with me now, Abby. The taxi will be here any minute.”
It wasn’t even six a.m., and Peter could tell the day was sure to be another scorcher. He felt the urge to go outside and play before the sun took over and just blinking made you sweat. He glanced over at his father and rallied for the nerve to ask.
“Dad,” he finally mustered, “do you want to play catch before you leave?”
Nick was texting on his phone and his brow furrowed as it always did when he was being distracted. “Not today, slugger. I don’t want to get all sweaty before I get on the plane.”
Peter tried to shake his head like he understood, but he couldn’t hide his disappointment. Slugger, my butt, Peter thought. He could have been the next Mickey Mantle (though he was 99.9999 percent sure he wasn’t), but his father would have no idea. They hadn’t played catch since his father started the Business. His father probably thought if he had a glove on one hand and a ball in the other, how could he hold his phone? Peter was tired of hearing about the Business. It was the Business that brought him to this new home. It was the Business that changed his Dad. The Business was another staple on several of Peter’s lists.
Once, desperate to play catch, Peter asked Mr. Terry. Mr. Terry immediately said no but agreed after Mr. James persuaded him. Mr. James looked a little younger than Mr. Terry and definitely was in better shape, but Peter was more comfortable with Mr. Terry. He was always smiling and talking loudly, waving his arms and making animated faces. Mr. James once told Peter that Mr. Terry used to be a character actor. When Peter asked what that was, Mr. Terry said it meant he was too fat and ugly to be a star. Then he laughed.
For catch, Peter had to loan Mr. Terry CJ’s mitt. Mr. Terry’s first throw missed horribly, sailing high over Peter’s head and down the street. Mr. James, who Peter had seldom seen smile to that point, laughed and slapped at the arm of the lawn chair he had set up for the occasion. The added dimension of having a spectator excited Peter even though Mr. Terry seemed less than thrilled.
“You come over here and try this,” he shouted at Mr. James. “This is opening old wounds. I’m going to have to see my therapist later.” Peter threw a bullet that hit Mr. Terry square in the chest, freeing the air from his body with an exploding OOOMPH! Mr. James doubled over in his lawn chair, choking with laughter. “There’s a big leather glove on your hand for a reason, Terry. It’s not an accessory,” Mr. James said, wiping tears from his eyes. Mr. Terry ignored the heckling, gently rubbing the center of his chest.
For an hour, they both constantly underthrew and overthrew each other, but not once did Mr. Terry show any sign of aggravation. He actually grew quite serious, concentrating on each throw, the tip of his tongue visible, and rejoicing in lottery-winning style when he threw a catchable ball. They played until the sun sank under the homes and Mr. Terry collapsed on the curb, begging the violet-streaked sky for a mimosa IV.
A cab slowed in front of the house and pulled into the driveway. Nick gathered his belongings and told Abby he’d call once he landed.
“Herb might be here when you get back, Nick, depending on when you get back,” Abby said. She’d purposely held off on this information until this time.
“Uncle Herb is coming over?” Peter asked. That was news to him.
Nick threw his bag over his shoulder. “Well, that’s why we bought this ranch, for Herbie. Right, dear?” The word dear dripped from Nick’s mouth.
“Hurry home,” Abby said, flatly. She went back to kitchen and Peter followed her, waving one last goodbye to his father.
Nick jogged to the cab and threw his bag, then himself, into the backseat. He leaned toward the driver and tapped the top of the driver’s seat. The cab sped off. It was like the classic chase scene in a movie and Nick was hot on the tail, the pursuer. But anyone watching would have no idea what he was chasing.
Uncle Herb
After the cab pulled away, Abby sprinted through her morning cleanup routine, taking minutes to accomplish