The Street That Watered at Six
Then Mrs. Lang said, “Well, good morning, dear. I’m Ruth. I don’t believe we’ve ever been properly introduced, and that is a shame after two years.”
Linda let out a breath that was half a laugh.
“Linda,” she said. “I’m Linda. I’ve watched you fill those bird feeders every day since we moved in.”
“I took them down.”
“I know you did.” Her chin trembled. “I know why. I am so sorry.”
“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Lang said, and patted her on the arm of the yellow robe with a wet hand. “You didn’t type it.”
That is when the garage door went up.
Carl must have heard the spigot, or seen her from the bedroom, because he was not dressed for work. He was in a white undershirt and his suit pants and bare feet. He came down the driveway and stopped at the edge of the concrete, like there was a wire strung there.
“Linda.”
She did not turn around.
“Linda. What are you doing?”
“I’m watering, Carl. It’s dry.”
“Come back in the house.”
“No.”
It was not loud. It was one of the quietest words I ever heard anybody say. But eleven people heard it, and so did he.
“We’ll discuss this inside.”
“We’ve discussed everything inside for two years.” Now she turned. The hose kept running, down into the grass at her feet. “I have eaten every supper for two years looking at this street through the blinds. I know when that baby got her first tooth because I saw them all out on the porch clapping. I know Mr. Henderson’s shoulder is worse in the cold. I know that lady across the street is up at four thirty every morning with her light on, by herself, and I have never once walked over.”
“That isn’t,” Carl started.
“I am sixty years old and I don’t have one friend in this town, Carl. Not one. You wrote to every person here before I had the chance to say hello to them.” She pointed the nozzle at the ground between them, at the six plugged risers. “And then you did that. To the one house that brought us cinnamon rolls. And he wrote you a check, and thanked you, and waved.”
Carl’s mouth opened. Nothing came.
“I counted eleven names this morning before I had the nerve to come down those steps,” Linda said. “I learned one more just now. I would like to learn the rest. You can stand there or you can go in. I’m going to water.”
She turned her back on him and squeezed the nozzle.
He looked at me. I think he expected me to be enjoying it.
I was not. I will tell you that honestly. I lifted my coffee cup, the same height as every other morning, no higher.
“Morning, Carl,” I said.
He went in the house. The garage door stayed up.
Nancy came across the grass with the thermos and a foam cup.
“Linda, how do you take it?”
“Oh. Just black. Thank you.”
“I’m Nancy. I’m the one who’s been dying to get a look at your kitchen for two years.”
Linda Jessup laughed out loud, and wiped her face with the cuff of that yellow robe, and Joyce Henderson came over the hedge with banana bread, and that was the end of anybody watering anything for about an hour.
The white Cadillac did not leave the garage that day.
Saturday morning I slept in. First time in three weeks. Nancy shook my shoulder at ten after seven.