I’m pretty sure I can’t even picture Walt making a joke. He’s the crankiest man I’ve ever met, but I have a feeling he has a soft spot located somewhere deep down in the murky depths.
“Walt,” I say, looking out at his yard while he finishes up. “What is that?” My chin is tipped toward the big piece of machinery in the yard.
“It’s a roller.”
“A…roller?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Why do you have a roller in your backyard?”
“Why did you get dropped off this afternoon by a guy in a work truck?”
I peer at Walt.
His lips draw together in a straight line, and I see a petulant fifteen-year-old somewhere in there.
Smacking the table with one hand, I say, “You are such a busybody.”
He pulls back his shoulders, his expression offended. “I am not, young lady. It is my right to know the comings and goings of this neighborhood. Keeps everyone safe.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Does everyone know you’ve appointed yourself the role of sentinel?”
Walt ignores me. I stop myself from asking him to turn up his hearing aid. He’s not wearing one, and he may not think my joke is funny.
Using his hands on his armrests, Walt pushes himself out of his seat. “Thank you for dinner.”
I stand too. “Anytime.” I get the feeling Walt is finished with our visit, so I gather the empty sauce-smeared container, nestle it in the noodle container, and stack the lids.
Walt leads me back through his house and opens his front door. I pass him, stopping on the wooden planked porch.
“What’s your favorite meal?” I ask him.
“Sour beef and dumplings.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’ve never heard of that.”
He shrugs. “It’s a Baltimore thing. I grew up there.”
“Shouldn’t you like crab cakes then?”
“I like those too.”
I step down, pausing on the bottom step. “Maybe I’ll learn how to make sour beef and dumplings.”
Walt sticks his hands in the pockets of his pants and nods. “I haven’t had that in years.”
“If I make it, will you tell me about your wife and the roller?”
Walt eyes me, giving me a long look. “I suppose so.”
“It’s a deal, then.”
I retreat to the sidewalk and walk home. Instead of rushing into the house before someone can talk to me, I sit down on the rocking chair Ginger has on the front porch. I spend only two minutes out there, listening to the breeze pushing the pine needles, the cawing of a nearby hawk, and Brooklyn shrieking in her backyard.
This place is only temporary, but at least it doesn’t suck.
* * *
