Return to Oakpin(32)
“Matt Brand saw it. One night Virginia was in there changing—I guess she never closed the curtains, and Matt was out back of his house over there, cleaning his football cleats with a stick.” Craig pointed across the yards, each effulgent garden, and as he did, they saw Mrs. Brand come out of the garage with a tray and go into her house. “And he saw some guy lying head down on the roof, trying to hang over and look in on the girl, and then the guy screamed or yelled and fell off. Matt said he saw the guy fall and heard the thump. He said there was no way he didn’t land on his head.”
Mason was laughing, and Craig finished the story. “As it was, he broke his arm and had a wrist cast that summer. He worked for the board of education, a painter.”
“And she closed her curtains.”
“Right. She got curtains and started closing them.”
“Virginia Starkey was a remarkable personage. Where’d she go?”
“California, I think. She married that kid whose dad owned the drugstore. He was a Lloyd, a couple of years older than us.” Both men looked out over the houses. They could see Mrs. Brand’s garden, the deep green of the large squash leaves in a jungle the way it had been when they were kids. It was three houses down and through the open backyards. “We had a lot of dinners there,” Mason said.
“Yes we did. No band ate together more than we did. The food was much better than the music.”
“I’ve been in every house all the way across Tribune Street,” Mason said. He spread his hand out over the neighborhood. “All of them. Hardmans and Griffiths and Goodsells.”
“Starkeys too?”
“I’m sure. Some cookout or Christmas party in grade school. We all had the same carpet. That guy came through here with his big carpet truck and did some good.” Mason went on, “Yeah, Jimmy put that Starkey fall in one of the novels, though it wasn’t the old man. It was the boyfriend. He changed a lot of things. I guess writers do.”
Mrs. Brand appeared again with a thermos and went into the garage. “It’s hard to believe the old man won’t let him in the house.”
“Brand was a strong guy, remember? He’s a strong old guy, and he’s using it all to keep a grudge.”
“Is it because Jimmy’s gay or because of what happened to Matt?”
“Who knows? By now it’s just the cluster of hurt, the reasons all gone,” Craig said. “But everything’s years old. And none of it’s worth this. You could lay out the case to him a, b, c, but some things don’t get a fair trial. He got hurt when Matt died in that accident, and then Jimmy is who he is and left town, and it just hurts, and no facts can put it back in line.” Craig stood and lifted the diminished roll of roofing paper, lined it up for Mason to staple, and began to run a layer down the roof. This paper would protect the house. It was such simple good work, and Mason was glad to have it.
The light seemed to last longer on the roof, because by the time they’d step off the ladder, it would be full dark, and they’d just drive up to the Ralstons. Mason wanted to get over to see Jimmy, visit his old friend, but every day they’d worked late.
That evening he and Craig saw Wade’s beautiful black pickup drive onto the front lawn beneath them, and Larry and Wade jumped out. Young guys jump everywhere. In the bed of the truck, besides mops and buckets, was the frame and mattress of the futon Craig had arranged for him and a little square refrigerator and two tables and some chairs. Larry lifted the coffee table out of the truck and balanced it aloft on one leg. He waved at his father with his free hand and then tossed the table up and caught it with both hands. “I hate to see you move in here, Mr. Kirby. The few days you’ve stayed with us have been fabulous for Marci Ralston’s teenage son. She has worn her robe every night.”