It was clear that the summer was about to change as soon as Jenny Karlo’s rusty old Chevy came clattering down Trowbridge Road at a quarter past two, the radio pounding heavy metal into the neighborhood, shattering the lazy Thursday afternoon like a rock through a dusty window.
When the door creaked open and Jenny stepped onto the cracked sidewalk with her black high-heeled boots, her bare legs, and her feathered red hair down past her shoulders, it seemed like the maple trees and the tall Victorian houses leaned in, not because they were leering at her like so many of the fathers did, but because something about Jenny changed everything that came close to her.
She took a drag on her cigarette.
“Get out of the car, Ziggy,” she said.
The back door opened, but the boy did not emerge.
“You need me to go back there and pull you?”
“No,” muttered the boy. “I can do it.”
He unfolded from the backseat, a beanpole in green-striped jogging shorts and a purple Return of the Jedi T-shirt. He had an unruly mop of long red hair down his back and a white ferret perched on his shoulder, snuffling at the wind.
He joined Jenny on the sidewalk. They stood side by side and looked up at the house. The boy reached for his mother’s hand. Hers were already occupied. One was holding the cigarette, and the other was hooked into the back pocket of her cutoff jeans. His hand flopped empty back down to his side.
“You got your stuff?” asked Jenny.
Ziggy nodded and lifted a battered suitcase with one shrugged shoulder.
“Okay, then. Let’s go.”
They walked together across the flagstones and then up the wooden steps.
Nana Jean swung open the door before they knocked. She made a strange sound — some kind of mixture between happy and sad, a sound that only a grandmother can make — and pulled Ziggy toward her. “It’s the right thing,” she said over his shoulder. “Oh, Jenny, Jenny, I know this is hard, but it’s the right thing. You’ll see.”
“Well, okay. It’s the right thing. Let’s hurry up before I change my mind.”
“We’ll stay in touch,” said Nana Jean breathlessly, rubbing the boy’s back. “I already made arrangements, and he can start school here with the other kids at the end of the summer, no problem. He’ll like it in Newton. No more bullies. No more teasing. Everything’s going to be just fine now. I’ll take really good care of him, Jenny. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” said Jenny. “I hear you. And I appreciate that. I really do. It sure has been a tough year.”
“I know,” said Nana Jean. “Let me worry about Ziggy, and you just work on getting yourself well. One day at a time. Right? Isn’t that what they say?”
“That’s what they say,” said Jenny.
She took one more drag on the cigarette, blew smoke over her shoulder, dropped the butt on the porch, and stamped it out with the heel of her boot.
The white ferret climbed down from the boy’s shoulder. Then it scrambled onto the porch, grabbed the butt in one claw, and started gnawing at it.
Nana Jean and Jenny both looked at the ferret because it was easier than looking at each other.
“Well, okay, Ziggy,” said Jenny. “You be good for Nana Jean. And don’t let that creature sleep in your pants. You hear me?” She took the boy by the shoulders and pulled him away from his grandmother. “Animals aren’t meant to sleep in people’s pants,” she said. “It’s disgusting. And it ruins them. Ferrets smell like skunk, you know. And clothes are expensive. Money doesn’t grow on trees, even here in Newton Highlands.”
“But Matthew likes being close to me,” said Ziggy. “He likes my scent.” Ziggy scooped the ferret from the ground, kissed him on the top of his white head, and then grinned at the creature. The ferret licked his teeth, his white tail twitching.
“Well, now,” said Nana Jean, pulling the ferret from Ziggy’s mouth and holding him in front of her like a dirty rag. “First things first. Let’s see what we can do to get you two settled in. I’ve got Jenny’s old room all ready, and I want you and Matthew to sleep any way that feels comfortable. If he wants to sleep in your pants, it’s okay with me as long as you’re out of them when he does it. No sleepless nights in Nana’s house. Nobody’s going to bother you anymore, Ziggy. Things are going to change now that Nana’s taking care of you. You hear me?”
“Thank you, Nana,” said Ziggy.
“Okay,” said Jenny. “I think I’d better go now.”
“Give him a kiss and tell him you love him,” said Nana Jean.
Obediently, Jenny knelt on the porch in front of her gangly boy.
Ziggy kissed his mother’s hair. “I love you, Jenny,” he said.
Jenny closed her eyes and leaned against him.
“You be the Walrus, Goo Goo Boy,” she said.
“I am,” said Ziggy. “I am the Walrus.”
Jenny got up from the ground. “Then give me a high slide,” she said.
Jenny put her hand out, and Ziggy ran his index finger down the length of her palm. Then he snapped and pointed at her. He had tears streaming down his cheeks.
“He’s the Walrus,” said Jenny, smiling now with tears in her eyes. “He’s my Goo Goo Boy. No matter what happens.”
Nana Jean took Ziggy by the hand. She opened the screen door and led him into the house.
Jenny stood alone on the porch. She watched the old house swallow them and looked out over Trowbridge Road at the row of houses with their closed doors. After a while, she sighed and made her way back to the car. She got in, lit another cigarette, rolled down the window, started the engine, cranked up the radio, and clattered down Trowbridge Road and on toward town.
The thickest branch of Nana Jean’s copper beech tree was a perfect place to watch the neighborhood. From the ground, you could catch a glimpse here and there: The postman brought the mail. Mr. Moniker took out his garbage, bent forward to arrange the cans, and then hiked up his pants before shuffling back into his house.
From the tree, I saw the fullness of Trowbridge Road — all the normal things that take place without anyone noticing how beautiful they are. I could see the old hollow behind Nana Jean’s house that used to be a farm a hundred years ago when Newton Highlands still had dairy cows. I could see Lucy and Heather Anne Delmato sun-tanning on their porch roof in matching hot-pink Day-Glo string bikinis, Lucy’s boom box blasting that summer’s top hits on the radio — Michael Jackson, Cyndi Lauper, people I always thought looked plastic on TV. I could see the Crowley boys at their house, riding their Huffy bikes over dirt piles, popping wheelies, and jeering at each other. I watched people pulling in and out of their driveways. Mrs. Koning, back from the supermarket with a paper bag filled with groceries. Mrs. Wright off to Crystal Lake for a swim. Mr. Lewis, back from the corner store with a sports magazine and a six-pack of Budweiser beer.
All the comings and goings of life.
Sometimes I imagined that my spying was the magic that tied Trowbridge Road to the world. I imagined that if I stopped watching for some reason, if I stopped noticing all the cars and all the grocery bags, and all the people opening and closing their car doors, everything in the world would come completely unhinged and swirl into a vacuum like Dorothy Gale’s farm in the twister: the tractor, the cow, the shed, Uncle Henry and Auntie Em and the wicked old Miss Gulch on her bicycle, and everything.