are gated.”
“I would’ve remembered something like that.”
“What do you want from me? I told you.”
The white gate opens before they reach the kiosk, but he stops the car and lowers his window anyway. “Good morning!”
A guard leans out of the kiosk. “You can go right on through, sir,” he says. His uniform appears freshly bleached, the epaulets newly stitched. Even bent over, the polyester holds its crease. He waves at Cheryl. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Bloom.”
Cheryl returns the gesture. “Hello, Byron.”
Her smile is bright, boarding on flirtatious, and Thaddeus wonders if he should be worried. He’ll have to look into that later, but right now there’s work to be done.
“We’re visiting my son, Stevie, and his partner for the week,” Thaddeus says. “Do you need me to sign anything?”
“No need, sir.” Byron smiles. “Mrs. Bloom is on the list. You can go right in.”
“I’ll sign whatever you need.”
“He said it’s fine,” Cheryl snipes, maintaining a pained smile.
“Just so everything’s on the up and up. I know how gated communities can be.”
“Thaddeus, let’s go.”
He relents, raising his hands in surrender. “Hey, man, okay. She’s the boss. I just do what she tells me to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep up the good work, huh?”
“Yes, sir. Have a nice visit.”
Thaddeus reaches for his wallet, but Cheryl stays his hand and gives the guard a quick wave. “Thank you, Byron. Thaddeus, drive.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
The immediate interior of the complex houses a cabana and a modest pool. From there the layout quickly segues into a series of winding lanes and sidewalks. Some end in culs-de-sac; others skirt roundabouts and branch off into labyrinthine blocks with plenty of meandering green space. The homes are all two-story off-white units with trim in peach, seafoam, or light gray. A few look freshly painted, others recently pressure-washed. A traffic sign reminds motorists to be vigilant of children at play. The overall impression is of something clean and new. “Some place,” he says.
Just being here seems to have elevated Cheryl’s mood. As soon as they turn the corner—or, rather, slalom along a lazy curve—she spots the house and taps him on the arm, pointing it out. He’s happy for the contact, even if it’s fleeting. “Here we are! Just pull into the driveway.”
Uniform rows of violet and white perennials adorn the bottom of the house. Pagoda lights trim the front walkway, and stacked river rocks create a neutral border between the saturated green of the grass and the robust brown of the wood chips piled high throughout the flower beds. A juvenile oak sprouts from the center of the lawn.
“Some yard. Must be making the gardener rich.”
“Oh, the homeowners’ association probably takes care of it.” She flutters out of the car.
“Homeowners, huh?”
He shifts the car into park and steps out with a wince. These days driving always puts a crick in his knee, and sleeping outside last night didn’t do him any favors. He bends the knee until the pain recedes, then hobbles around the driveway.
She extracts a handful of letters from the mailbox. “Peter’s still at work, but Steven said to just let ourselves in.” She hands him the mail to hold while she goes around the side of the house. Lazily, he flips through the stack: a few bills and a catalog from a furniture store he doesn’t recognize, that’s pretty much it.
“Stevie’s not here?”
“He’s at the real estate office all day, then doing his volunteering. I told you all this already.”
“Oh.”
“He’ll be home later.” Then speaking to herself: “There’s a key hidden over here somewhere.”
After getting the bags from the trunk, he wanders over the lawn. It’s softer than what they have in Apopka, which is stubby, coarse, and often yellow in the winter. This grass, by contrast, is almost blue.
“Some lawn,” he mumbles.
Cheryl returns, holding up a key and smiling. “Found it!” She kisses him on the cheek. “Come on, quit staring at the lawn and grab the suitcases. I have to disarm the alarm and I never remember the code. Oh, I’m so excited!”
“Oh”—the kiss still warm on his cheek—“I’ll come all right!”
Palm trees line the deck of Stevie’s house, barks painted white against insects. Cheryl is upstairs while he paces aimlessly; dusk can be the loneliest time of day. She’d grabbed him as soon as he dropped their bags in the guest room, needing him for the first time in months. “Do you want anything special?” he’d asked, unsure how to proceed after such a long absence. She hadn’t deigned to answer, leaving little for him to go on but a cryptic shrug. He didn’t press her further; instead, he improvised, and they had a magnificent time.
And now he finds himself drunk on it still, stumbling around Stevie’s backyard, letting the decor wash over him and already missing the warmth of her skin, the scent of heat in her hair. Her smooth back has maintained its perfect line through the years—a sculpture that never tires of posing. She even kissed him before dropping her head dreamily onto a fresh white pillowcase that still retained a vague latticework of creases from the linen closet. “They’ll be home soon,” she said. “And I still need to get dressed.” She suggested he get some air, her voice tinged by that familiar indifference. But she must have noticed it sneaking back in, because she kissed him again and softly added that she was feeling tired and might take a nap.
“Whatever you want,” he’d said, afraid of ruining the moment, and he repeats it now to himself as he circles the pool, which is better than theirs in every way: the still surface reflects the window to the guest room where Cheryl keeps her own counsel, the adjoining hot tub mocks him with its effortless warmth. There’s a gas barbecue, too. He twists the knobs and tests the starter before shutting off the valve and opening the hood. Drops of charred fat speckle the burners, but the grill sparkles silver, clean—of course. “Whatever you want.”
The labored whine of the garage door opening calls him inside.
It can mean only one thing. In a moment, his idle curiosity about how his son’s family lives evaporates. There’s no need to wonder, he thinks as he scrambles across the deck and into the house, because he’s about to find out.
Inside, he pauses at the landing long enough to call up to Cheryl. “They’re home,” he shouts, but he doesn’t stop to wait for her. Rushing on he stumbles over a leather ottoman. Catching himself, he calls again: “Cheryl, Gertie and Stevie are here!” As he says it, he can’t believe it. His voice shakes with anticipation and maybe even fear. Stevie is about to walk through the door. After three years, he’s about to walk through that door, and all will be forgiven.
He zips past the dining room and through the laundry room. One and a half inches of beveled, stained oak is all that separates him from absolution. Tonight will go well. Tomorrow will be a breeze. Smiling, arms outstretched, he prepares to embrace his son, the past forgotten, and to greet his granddaughter. He’s seconds away now; he can hear a key scratching at the deadbolt from the other side, a muffled curse accompanying it. Impatiently, he turns the lock himself before throwing open the door.
But instead of Stevie with Gertie in his arms, he finds Peter weighed down with groceries. Disappointment at not finding his son momentarily blinds him to Gertie’s presence, but there she is, too. Little Gertie. Hurdy-Gertie. The girl he recognizes only from photographs. Her legs splay across Peter’s midsection. Her straight black