driveway and Peter saw a figure step in front of the headlights, followed by a smaller, shaggier shape.
Walter Finn and his dog. The animal was genial enough, but you couldn’t say the same about the man. Finn was forever circulating petitions against one thing or another: too many weeds in a neighbor’s yard, bikes left scattered across sidewalks, snow going unshoveled, all the petty grievances that sprang up in a suburban community, which most people ignored but onto which Finn fastened greedy claws.
Peter stabbed at the burgers and flipped them over.
The dog tugged at his leash, wanting to come over and investigate the meat he was cooking. Finn lifted his head and spotted Peter standing conspicuously against the bright light shining from the kitchen behind him. Peter braced himself for another round of what’s-this-neighborhood-coming-to, but Finn jerked the leash instead and tugged the dog away.
“Heel, Barney,” he ordered, and the dog shambled over to check out who’d been visiting the tree on the far corner.
Peter had been afforded a reprieve. Finn must have figured out he wasn’t the go-to guy of the house any longer. Turning back to the grill, he saw Smith standing at his own grill just across the yard.
“Dude,” Smith said. “Good to see you.”
“Been a while.”
“Crazy times, huh? Libby sent me out for water today, but all I could find was that fizzy designer stuff.”
“I got lucky at a gas station on Franz. A delivery truck was just unloading when I pulled up. We’ve got extra you can have.”
“I’ll take you up on that. Libby’s been a wreck about it.”
They talked back and forth across their patios. Would the NFL adjust to a few missed games? How much farther would the Dow Jones skid before recovering? Was there any end in sight to the price of gas? Libby came out, the baby in her arms, and handed Smith a platter.
“Hey,” Peter said.
“Hello,” she said coolly.
Well, at least she wasn’t pretending he was invisible. This was progress. Peter pushed his luck. “Jacob’s gotten big.” Last time he’d seen the baby, he’d been cradled easily in one arm. Now the kid straddled Libby’s hip, reaching forward with one plump hand for the piece of bun Smith held out.
Smith said, “Gonna grow up to be a linebacker, just like his old man.”
The coals glowed softly. The smell of cooked meat rose. Peter pressed the spatula beneath the hamburgers and lifted them onto a plate. Picking up the platter, he dialed off the heat.
“Hey,” Smith said. “I got an idea. Why don’t you guys come over?”
An old tradition, combining their cookouts onto one patio or dining room.
“Smith,” Libby said.
“Jeez, Libby. Come on. If Ann’s cool with it—”
“Actually,” Peter said, “Libby’s right. We should probably be keeping our distance.” Silence.
“Christ.” Smith’s voice came to him out of the darkness. “Right. I guess I saw something about that on the news. You really think it’ll do any good?”
“It’s all we can do.”
The clatter of a grill lid lowered into place. “Well, good to see you, Peter.”
“You too.”
Peter looked around at all the houses, large, dark squares rising out of the ground, windows glowing bright, islands separated by lawns and closed doors. The empty patios, the tables with the chairs stacked and the umbrellas furled. No one else was out enjoying the spate of clear weather.
He looked back at his own house. Through the glass he saw into the kitchen—Ann reaching down a stack of plates from the cabinet, Maddie collecting her drawing materials, Kate pouring a glass of milk. It all appeared normal, but it wasn’t. Everything had changed.
“Listen, if our government’s too chicken to force people to isolate themselves, then Americans should take it upon themselves to stay away from each other.”
“You know how many businesses are going to fold if we do that? Hotels, restaurants, any kind of retail establishment. The
Walter Finn and his dog. The animal was genial enough, but you couldn’t say the same about the man. Finn was forever circulating petitions against one thing or another: too many weeds in a neighbor’s yard, bikes left scattered across sidewalks, snow going unshoveled, all the petty grievances that sprang up in a suburban community, which most people ignored but onto which Finn fastened greedy claws.
Peter stabbed at the burgers and flipped them over.
The dog tugged at his leash, wanting to come over and investigate the meat he was cooking. Finn lifted his head and spotted Peter standing conspicuously against the bright light shining from the kitchen behind him. Peter braced himself for another round of what’s-this-neighborhood-coming-to, but Finn jerked the leash instead and tugged the dog away.
“Heel, Barney,” he ordered, and the dog shambled over to check out who’d been visiting the tree on the far corner.
Peter had been afforded a reprieve. Finn must have figured out he wasn’t the go-to guy of the house any longer. Turning back to the grill, he saw Smith standing at his own grill just across the yard.
“Dude,” Smith said. “Good to see you.”
“Been a while.”
“Crazy times, huh? Libby sent me out for water today, but all I could find was that fizzy designer stuff.”
“I got lucky at a gas station on Franz. A delivery truck was just unloading when I pulled up. We’ve got extra you can have.”
“I’ll take you up on that. Libby’s been a wreck about it.”
They talked back and forth across their patios. Would the NFL adjust to a few missed games? How much farther would the Dow Jones skid before recovering? Was there any end in sight to the price of gas? Libby came out, the baby in her arms, and handed Smith a platter.
“Hey,” Peter said.
“Hello,” she said coolly.
Well, at least she wasn’t pretending he was invisible. This was progress. Peter pushed his luck. “Jacob’s gotten big.” Last time he’d seen the baby, he’d been cradled easily in one arm. Now the kid straddled Libby’s hip, reaching forward with one plump hand for the piece of bun Smith held out.
Smith said, “Gonna grow up to be a linebacker, just like his old man.”
The coals glowed softly. The smell of cooked meat rose. Peter pressed the spatula beneath the hamburgers and lifted them onto a plate. Picking up the platter, he dialed off the heat.
“Hey,” Smith said. “I got an idea. Why don’t you guys come over?”
An old tradition, combining their cookouts onto one patio or dining room.
“Smith,” Libby said.
“Jeez, Libby. Come on. If Ann’s cool with it—”
“Actually,” Peter said, “Libby’s right. We should probably be keeping our distance.” Silence.
“Christ.” Smith’s voice came to him out of the darkness. “Right. I guess I saw something about that on the news. You really think it’ll do any good?”
“It’s all we can do.”
The clatter of a grill lid lowered into place. “Well, good to see you, Peter.”
“You too.”
Peter looked around at all the houses, large, dark squares rising out of the ground, windows glowing bright, islands separated by lawns and closed doors. The empty patios, the tables with the chairs stacked and the umbrellas furled. No one else was out enjoying the spate of clear weather.
He looked back at his own house. Through the glass he saw into the kitchen—Ann reaching down a stack of plates from the cabinet, Maddie collecting her drawing materials, Kate pouring a glass of milk. It all appeared normal, but it wasn’t. Everything had changed.
“Listen, if our government’s too chicken to force people to isolate themselves, then Americans should take it upon themselves to stay away from each other.”
“You know how many businesses are going to fold if we do that? Hotels, restaurants, any kind of retail establishment. The
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