Mulberry Park. Judy Duarte

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Blondie said, as she dashed off. Yet she didn’t run toward the older boy who sat in the shadow of the slide, drawing with a stick in the sand. Instead she skipped toward the center of the park, near the mulberry tree.

      Walter probably ought to mind his own business, which he seemed to do a heck of a lot of these days, but sometimes he got sick and tired of hearing himself think.

      “I don’t suppose you play chess,” he said to the old woman.

      She turned, and the sun glistened off the silver strands of her hair. He suspected she’d been pretty when she’d been younger, but now she wore a pucker on her face that suggested she’d weathered her own share of disappointment over the years.

      “No,” she said, “I’m afraid I don’t play.”

      “Too bad.”

      They fell into step together, walking slowly.

      “You’re here all the time,” she said. “And you’ve always got that game with you.”

      “My last chess buddy passed on a couple of months back, and I’m hoping to find a new opponent.” There hadn’t been many takers, though. Either they were too young or couldn’t be bothered with an old man. That was to be expected, he supposed. There came a time when folks just outlived their usefulness.

      The woman glanced at the midday sun, then reached a hand to her head and patted the springy gray curls as though feeling for something and finding it missing.

      He did that sometimes, too. Got absentminded and forgetful.

      “Oh, dear.” She clucked her tongue. “Wouldn’t you know it? I left my hat in the car.”

      Walter watched as she headed back to the white Prelude. The girl had called her Mrs. Richards, so the two weren’t related. He supposed that made her a babysitter then. But what the heck. None of his business.

      He made his way toward his favorite table, the one that sat along the path to the restrooms. He figured that particular spot saw more traffic than the others and would present more opportunities for him to find an opponent. It happened once in a while. Often enough for him to keep hanging out at the park, rather than whiling away the hours at home, which was merely a short walk from Paddy’s Pub. Too short of a walk, actually.

      Walter had done no more than set up the game board and playing pieces, when Mrs. Richards approached. “I don’t suppose you know how to get into a locked car?”

      So maybe he hadn’t quite outlived his usefulness after all.

      “As a matter of fact, breaking-and-entering vehicles is one of several handy tips I picked up while in the pen.”

      Obviously not one to appreciate his sense of humor, she placed a hand on her chest and sobered.

      “Not to worry,” he said, getting to his feet. “That was just a joke. I’ve never been in prison.”

      He had, of course, spent quite a bit of time in the local jail when you added it all up. The last arrest occurred after he’d gotten drunk while the city had held their annual Founders’ Day parade, but he supposed Mrs. Richards, who appeared too prissy to get a chuckle out of it, wouldn’t appreciate hearing the details.

      His old buddies at the pub had thought it was a real hoot. They probably still did. But three years ago, Walter had experienced a sobering epiphany when Russell Meredith hit that kid on the bicycle. Russell swore he hadn’t had a drop to drink that day, but had been so distracted that he hadn’t even known that the bump he’d felt had been a child.

      At first, before Russell had come forward and turned himself in, most people assumed the driver had been drinking. Why else would the guilty person have left the scene?

      Naturally, since the accident had taken place just a couple of blocks from Paddy’s, the cops had questioned everyone who patronized the pub.

      For a while, all the regulars had eyed each other a bit suspiciously, wondering whether the guilty driver had been one of them. In fact, Walter suspected they’d all cast surreptitious glances at the vehicles in the parking lot, looking for new dents or streaks of paint—whatever.

      Even Walter, who’d driven home completely bombed plenty of times, had been relieved to see that his truck hadn’t suffered any damage.

      He blew out a weary sigh, hoping to shake the memory that had caused him to admit what no one else had ever been able to. That he ought to quit drinking for a while.

      One day led to a second, then a third.

      And, thanks to Carl Witherspoon, a do-gooder who’d come to Paddy’s passing out AA fliers after Meredith’s arrest, Walter had kicked it.

      So far.

      Still, a good laugh and someone to share it with was what he missed the most. More than the booze.

      Walter cleared his throat as he shuffled toward the woman’s car. “As luck would have it, I have a coat hanger in my truck. Let’s see if I’ve still got the touch.”

      “I appreciate your help,” she said as they reached the parking lot. “It seems as if I’d forget my head these days if it wasn’t connected to my neck.”

      “No problem.” Walter went to the toolbox in the back of his pickup, then dug around until he found the bent wire hanger he kept on hand. Every once in a while one of the patrons at the pub had gotten locked out of a vehicle—maybe a good thing, he now realized. So years ago he’d tucked a coat hanger into the toolbox in the back of his truck. It had come in handy a time or two, which seemed to be all he was good for these days.

      Hard to imagine that was his sole purpose for being on earth.

      Walter Klinefelter, Parking Lot Superhero, who helped people out of a jam, then watched as they sped away in a cloud of dust, leaving him standing by his lonesome.

      As he strode toward the Prelude, he wasn’t so sure he could help. These newfangled models had antitheft systems that made it tough to get in. They might have to call the Automobile Club, if she had their service. Or a locksmith, if she didn’t.

      “By the way,” he said, reaching out to the seventy-something woman. “My name is Walter Klinefelter.”

      “Hilda Richards,” she said, taking his hand in hers.

      Human contact was a funny thing. Just an occasional touch could make a man feel alive again.

      He nodded toward the blond pixie and asked, “You babysitting?”

      “I’m a nanny,” she said, as if there was a big difference.

      As she leaned against the side of the car, she winced, and he looked up from his work.

      “My arthritis is acting up like old fury today. I hadn’t wanted to come to the park, but Analisa was insistent, and I hate to tell the sweet little thing no. She’s been through enough already.”

      He glanced over his shoulder at the child who was now standing near Carl’s memorial bench that rested at the base of the mulberry tree. “Are you new in town? I’ve been coming to the park for a long time and have just recently СКАЧАТЬ