“Morning, Clara,” Gary said, his voice deep and gravelly like dry stones sliding down a chute. “The postman left this on my passenger seat by mistake. It is addressed to Richard.”
“Thank you, Gary,” I said, setting the broom against the white railing. “He is out back in the shed, looking for his oil can.”
Gary did not walk toward the back of the house. He stood on the bottom step, adjusting his baseball cap, pulling the dark blue brim low over his gray eyes. It was the same slow gesture he used to use when he had to tell a neighbor about a stray cow or a broken fence.
“I saw the blue sedan yesterday afternoon,” Gary said. “Down by the corner of Third and Elm, right outside the pharmacy.”
“He had to pick up his throat lozenges,” I said.
“He went clean up over the concrete curb, Clara,” Gary said. “Just the front passenger tire, but it was a hard bounce. He didn’t seem to notice he had done it.”
“The curb is high down there,” I said, my finger instinctively reaching up to adjust my glasses on my nose. “They built it up when they repaved the intersection last spring.”
