Ray’s truck. A big white Ram 3500 Cummins with a lift kit and chrome running boards and tires that cost more than my first car. It was shined up so clean the sun bounced off the hood and hit me in the eyes from half a block away.
I knew that truck. Grandma had written me about it in October. Your uncle got himself a new truck. Real big. He drove it to church and parked it across two spaces and the pastor had to say something.
I shut off the mower.
He rolled down Locust Street slowly, at about five miles an hour, like he was in a parade. I watched his head turn from side to side. Looking at the yards.
Every yard on that street had stripes now. Dark and light. Straight as fence wire. The clippings raked into neat piles by the curb, thanks to Tyler. Mrs. Banks’s roses edged. Mr. Archie’s front walk swept.
The ladies under the oak tree had gone quiet. All of them. Mrs. Halloway had her hand on her chest. Miss Edna had set down her tea.
Ray pulled up to the curb right in front of me. He rolled down the window. Cold air from his AC hit me in the face. Country music was playing inside.
Raymond Gaines was fifty-one years old. He had my grandpa’s build, big and heavy through the shoulders, and my grandpa’s nose. But he didn’t have Grandpa’s face. Grandpa’s face was square and plain and still. Ray’s face always moved. He smiled a lot. He talked a lot. He used to slap my dad on the back so hard it left a red mark.
He looked at me in my wet PT shorts. Then he looked up and down the street. Then back at me.
