Loving Thy Neighbor. Ruth Scofield

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СКАЧАТЬ eye. She glanced over the fence to the tall, narrow house behind hers, spotting a stooped, thin figure with binoculars clamped to his eyes. Waving jauntily, she grinned. A moment later, the old man had disappeared from view.

      Quincee chuckled. She sure did have interesting and concerned neighbors.

      She continued her examination of her garage. As she traipsed around it, listening to the children’s voices float, she decided the old structure wasn’t in as bad a shape as she’d thought.

      Kyle demanded that Kerri give him the hammer, and an argument ensued. Then, hearing additional grown-up voices, Quincee rounded the corner to see an older couple talking with the children.

      “Oh, hello there. I’m Bette Longacre,” the woman said. “This is my husband, Gene. We live just across the street, there.” She pointed to a large brick bungalow in thirties style directly across from the judge’s. Bette had a sweet smile in a plump face and short white hair. “We came over to welcome you and your children to the neighborhood.”

      “That’s nice of you,” Quincee responded, smiling in return. She swiped her hand on the back of her jeans and offered to shake while she introduced herself and the children.

      The adults agreed on using first names.

      “We are trying to open our garage,” Quincee explained. “We have no idea what’s in there.”

      “Oh, I can tell you what some of it is,” Bette said. “Old furniture. Magazines. Bottles. Junk and more junk. Denby never threw away anything in his life if he could help it.”

      “Any toys?” Kerri asked hopefully.

      “Possible. Never knew with Denby,” Gene answered, rubbing his chin. His gaze was speculative behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “He could be a peculiar man sometimes.”

      “Somethin’ going on here?” asked a new arrival. The man who strolled toward them tucked a folded newspaper under his arm as he hitched his baggy shorts over a rounded belly. He had a thick fringe of nondescript hair around his shiny dome of a head.

      “Oh, ’lo, Randolf.” Bette greeted him tentatively with a quick glance at her husband. “Come meet our new neighbors, Quincee Davis and the children, Kyle and Kerri.”

      The two men nodded their greetings toward each other rather like two hounds who claimed the same territory. The new arrival turned her way.

      “Randolf Bader, ma’am. Saw the commotion an’ heard banging,” he said. “Thought I should see what all the ruckus was about. Don’t have many little kids on the street anymore. Big ones, though. Some of ’em can’t be trusted to stay outta trouble.”

      “Randolf lives two doors down from here,” Bette explained to Quincee. “He heads our neighborhood watch program.”

      “That’s good to know,” Quincee said. “Well, Mr. Bader, I’m trying to remove this padlock. There doesn’t seem to be a key to it, and anyway, it has rusted and corroded until it’s completely sealed. So far, a hammer against it hasn’t broken it.”

      “A saw might do it,” Gene said.

      “I think you should get aholt of one of those tools like giant pliers,” said Mr. Bader.

      “Don’t think so, Randolf,” Gene contradicted. “Wouldn’t cut it. Besides, those things take a lot of muscle power.”

      “That let’s you out then,” Mr. Bader said.

      Gene pursed his lips. “And I suppose you could do it?”

      “Wasn’t saying that, now, was I?”

      “You may have to call in a locksmith,” Bette said hastily. “They know about these things.”

      “What’s going on?” said the deep voice behind her. Quincee would recognize that voice from only a syllable spoken.

      Hearing it certainly caused her tummy to dip. She hadn’t heard his approach.

      They all turned his way in unison, as though his presence commanded the highest respect even in the neighborhood.

      Dressed in a lightweight summer suit, the charcoal shade over a stark white shirt coupled with a cranberry red tie, Judge Hamilton Paxton appeared as appropriate to the law profession as if he waved his degree like a flag.

      “Hello, there, Hamilton,” Gene greeted. “Just getting acquainted with your new neighbors.”

      “Is there a problem?” Hamilton asked.

      “Not really. It’s—” Quincee began.

      “She needs a locksmith,” Bette said.

      “I’m not sure that’s necessary yet,” Quincee said as she tried again. She didn’t want to spend money on locksmith services unless she had no other choice. Her last paycheck had gone to pay for her traffic fine and for the moving expenses, and what little was left had to stretch to the first of next month.

      “Old Denby hadn’t touched that lock in years,” Gene added.

      “What would really do it is a sledgehammer,” Mr. Bader said. He went to investigate the lock for himself, rattling it as though to shake it off. “You got a sledgehammer in all them tools you got, Gene?”

      “I don’t want to smash more than the lock,” Quincee said hastily.

      “Well, I’ve a hacksaw someplace,” Gene said. “If I can find it. M’son borrowed it last winter and I’m not sure it’s been returned.”

      “Please don’t bother,” Quincee said. “I’ll—”

      “Never mind, Gene,” the judge said. “I have a hacksaw. I’ll see to it later for Miss Davis.”

      Quincee shot a quizzical gaze toward the judge. Why was he so nice all of a sudden? Why would he offer to help her?

      “Uh-oh. I just remembered the roast I have in the oven,” Bette said in a sudden flurry. “Let me know if you need us to help you with anything in that pile of junk, my dear,” she said to Quincee. She smiled at the children, who had drifted away to run about the yard, before saying, “Coming, Gene?”

      “Be right there, Bette, love.” Gene turned to the judge. “Say, Hamilton, did your grandfather ever find those old snapshots he promised to go through? Was a bunch from years back when our sons were just little tykes.”

      “I don’t know that he ever did, Gene. There’s a dozen boxes of old stuff he had in the attic that you’re welcome to look through if you’d like.”

      “Now, Hamilton,” Bette protested with humor as she edged toward the street. The others followed. “Don’t get Gene started on your old stuff. We have enough of our own that we need to do something with. We’re all getting too old to hang on to these leftovers, and our children don’t want any of it.”

      “Why don’t you have a garage sale?” Quincee threw the idea into the pot, strolling along.

      “Thought about it,” Mr. Bader said. “Daughter-in-law’s СКАЧАТЬ