Kathryn Davis - Duplex

The day was becoming hot, the sky like an open mouth, and the heat had a broad sucking quality no one could get used to. Eddie’s father had almost finished mowing and was standing on the sidewalk, using his large white handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his bright-red face. The sycamore in front of their house was one of the ones that had sickened and died and been chopped down. In its place the community association had planted something that looked more like a twig. The street used to be so shady, even during the hottest months. No wonder the children stayed inside now.

Eddie’s mother stayed inside too. She claimed the sun made her feel faint, though everyone agreed she’d been a different person ever since Eddie had gone on the DL and hadn’t come back. Saturday night Eddie’s father still frequented the Venetian Club and once he’d had enough to drink could be persuaded to take the baton and lead the band for a number or two. Eddie’s mother used to be one of the best dancers on the floor; everyone said Eddie got his fleetness of foot, his animal grace, from her. He looked like her too, with his thick dark hair and full lips, but he got his hazel eyes and tender spirit from his father.

“I’m waiting,” Eddie’s mother yelled through the open front door. Like most of the older people on the street they still felt safe using screens, having built up immunity during the year of the infestation. “The ice cubes are melting.”

“I’ll be right there,” Eddie’s father yelled back. “I’m almost done.”

He was watching the approach from the far end of the street of Carol XA, who had stopped at the corner to let her dog sniff the holly bush. Ever since she’d adopted Miss Vicks’s dog, Carol had adopted her habits and mannerisms as well, wearing sweater sets and tweed suits and playing the part of the perfect spinster. Unlike her predecessor, though, she always had a ready store of neighborhood gossip. Eddie’s father enjoyed passing the time of day with her.

“Lunch is ready now! ” Eddie’s mother yelled.

If her husband didn’t come in soon she would have to eat both sandwiches herself, something she did more and more frequently, contributing to a growing weight problem. She used to be lithe, like Eddie; in a form-fitting gown she could steal a man’s breath away and fill a woman’s soul with envy. At least now that she was fat she had some friends. Plus the sandwiches were her favorite, sea legs mixed with mayonnaise and celery — to slow herself down she cut them into quarters. A small gray-brown bird she’d never seen before settled on the bird feeder outside the kitchen window, fluffed its feathers, and then made itself smooth again, looking her in the eye.

It was as if she was supposed to do something, though she didn’t know what. For want of anything better she activated the console, a miniature one built into the wall above the kitchen counter for times like this, when her craving for human company was overpowering. The reception was poor, but what she thought was static turned out to be the noise of an over excited crowd. “… a stunning development, Bob,” the sportscaster was saying, “absolutely stunning. I don’t think anyone saw this coming…”

The picture shifted to the ball field, where a player wearing Rockets jersey number 24 was sliding into home plate. He looked young and strong, exactly the way he’d looked the day he collided with his teammate in front of the Alka-Seltzer sign. It was hard to see anything clearly, though; the picture was fuzzy and because the sun was in his face he was wearing twin patches of black paint under his eyes. Eddie’s mother sat on the kitchen floor, her appetite knocked out of her. “Back to you, Heidi,” the sportscaster said.

The crowd kept cheering, a sea of paper bag — colored faces with little holes for mouths. When they started singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” Eddie’s signature tune, the picture switched to the owner’s box, where the owner was making a victory sign with his fingers while his wife sat beside him stiff as a board in a white linen dress and a black straw hat with an unusually wide brim. It was impossible to see her expression — when the crowd got to “I don’t care if I never get back” the camera pulled in for a close-up, whereupon she gripped both knees with her white-gloved hands and put her head in her lap.

Eddie’s mother thought the owner’s wife looked like she was going to be sick and she felt no sympathy. Of course she’d never heard the real story; as far as she was concerned, if it hadn’t been for Mary, Eddie would still be here. It was hard to remember that there had been a time when the future seemed so certain it was as if it had already happened and it was possible to summon even the smallest details of it as if they were distant memories: the four of them eating lunch at the card table in the living room, the sunlight sliding through the bow window in a great yellow block the way it always did at midday. Make that five and put them in the dining room along with a high chair, an entire family shuttling around and through the sun, dragging their shadows behind them like trains. Her granddaughter was a sly little monkey, dark-haired like her daddy. The child didn’t always want to try something new like sea-leg sandwiches, but Grammy had her ways. Then they all played cards.

“I’m feeling good,” Eddie was telling Heidi. The Rockets had won the playoffs with Eddie’s grand slam home run in the game’s final at bat. He didn’t look any different than he had the last time his mother saw him — he had a pleasant face but rarely did he smile. The last time she saw him — when could that have been? As crystal clear as the future once seemed, the past now seemed cloaked in mystery. So much time had gone by. New people had moved onto the street, most of them nice enough but total strangers. Mr. Costello sold his haberdashery to a chain. The trolley barn had become a walk-in clinic.

Meanwhile Eddie’s father had finished mowing the grass verge in front of number 24 and was turning to greet Carol XA.

“Looks like someone’s thirsty,” he said, moving the water bowl closer to her little dog who was straining at the leash.

“You do such a beautiful job,” Carol said. She stood looking back the way she’d come, blinking her eyes rapidly the way a robot does when agitated. “I only wish everyone took as much care with their property.”

“It isn’t easy,” Eddie’s father said. He knew she was talking about Mr. O’Toole, who had let things go since his wife died. Even though the ornamental shrubbery in front of their house was plastic it had shed most of its leaves, and the paint had peeled from all their window and door frames. “Sometimes life throws us curves,” he added.

For several moments they both stood without saying a word, watching while the dog lapped up water. At last Carol pulled a balled tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan and began to dab at her eyes. “They seemed like such a devoted couple,” she said with a sigh.

All at once, as it had many times before, the long silver-gray car approached from the far end of the street, moving fast. Because of the missing trees the sun reflected directly off the car’s hood, turning it to a blaze of light almost as hard to look at as the face of the sun itself.

“Keep back!” Carol said, handing Eddie’s father the leash. Already she was moving too fast to register the moment when the leash slipped from his fingers — before anyone could stop her she had stepped off the curb directly into the path of the speeding car.

It was like watching a bright thing intersect with a thing even brighter, neither system’s mechanics even remotely compatible with the usual thermodynamic laws. Once again there was the sound of squealing brakes, a soft thump. Then the car’s rear door opened, letting Eddie out. He stumbled to regain balance and began walking unsteadily, listing from side to side.