style="font-size:15px;"> Number nine on the “Sucks Rocks” list: incoming golf balls. You were never completely safe in a golf course community, especially outside, but that was also true inside near windows that faced the golf course. CJ, on the other hand, loved when some hack sent a ball into the yard. Her father gave her a quarter for every ball she collected.
Two men in a golf cart pulled up to their back fence. CJ dropped the ball discreetly in the cupholder of Uncle Herb’s wheelchair.
A pot-bellied man wearing a collared sports shirt and sunglasses on top of his salt-and-pepper hair stepped out of the driver’s side of the cart. A much older and shriveled man in plaid pants remained seated, a thick cigar sticking out from the center of his mouth like a lever. The driver leaned on the fence, and his eyes searched the ground of their backyard. He didn’t acknowledge the man in the wheelchair or the two children sitting in the yard until he grew impatient with his search.
“You guys see a golf ball come through here?”
CJ looked at Uncle Herb and then turned toward the golfer. “No,” she said.
“Let’s go, Dean. The other foursome is up at the tee already,” said the shriveled man with the plaid pants from the golf cart. The sweet-smelling cigar smoke drifted into the yard.
The man named Dean dismissed his partner with an abrupt wave. “They can wait. That was my St. Andrew’s commemorative ball. I could swear it was this house here. You guys didn’t see anything?”
Peter sensed an accusatory tone. He stared at the grass in front of him.
“Nope,” CJ said.
“They’re hitting up on us, Dean,” plaid pants said.
The man named Dean stared at CJ the same way childless people looked upon a kid having a meltdown in a store, though CJ was completely calm.
“Dean! C’mon, you can drop a ball where I am.”
“All right, all right.” Dean jogged back to the cart. He shot a quick hard look at CJ one more time before speeding off.
When the sound of the golf cart hushed, CJ pulled the ball from the cup holder and inspected the St. Andrew’s insignia. “Maybe Dad will give me a dollar for this one,” she said, tossing the ball in the air and cupping her two hands to catch it. She bolted inside to add the new treasure to her collection.
“Her mouth is going to get her in real trouble someday,” Peter said.
Uncle Herb looked at Peter but said nothing.
“They knew she was lying, Uncle Herb. She shouldn’t have done it. What would happen if he jumped over the fence and started looking for the ball? He could have seen it in the cup holder.”
Peter crossed his arms and waited for a reply, but Uncle Herb just smiled at him.
A thunderous rumbling came from the front of the house as a flatbed truck plodded down the street carrying stacks of lumber. The truck’s hydraulic brakes screeched to a stop in front of Josh’s house.
“Can I take a look, Uncle Herb?”
Uncle Herb nodded, yes.
Peter watched as the truck driver, a stubby guy in a baseball hat and T-shirt with wet stains under the arms, stepped down from the truck and pulled leather gloves from the back pocket of his dirty jeans. He squinted in the direction of the sun, then at Josh’s front door. A shirtless Josh appeared in jeans with similar grime as the driver’s. Josh pushed his hair back and tied a bandanna to his head.
“Where do you want it?” Peter heard the trucker ask.
“I’ll be working here on the driveway, makes sense to keep the wood close. Let’s drop it all on the front here, the neighbors will go ballistic. Have you ever seen such manicured lawns?”
The trucker nodded and wiped his brow with his forearm. Peter found himself making his way to the front yard, hugging the perimeter of his house. Josh and the truck driver unloaded long planks of wood from the back of the truck, two or three at a time. They worked in silence, and Peter studied them as he moved closer, not stopping until he reached the giant pine tree. He squatted and peered from behind it, nibbling at a fingernail as he watched.
The trucker broke the silence by asking Josh what in high heaven he was building with all this wood. Josh found this to be the most hysterical question for reasons beyond Peter and, by the confused look on his face, beyond the trucker. The trucker stepped back and stared as Josh’s body quivered, then erupted again in laughter. This went on for a couple of minutes. The trucker distanced himself from Josh. When they continued unloading, the trucker worked with newfound energy.
Peter waited, but Josh never did answer the question.
After the truck was empty and the front lawn layered with stacks of wood, Josh had to chase after the trucker to tip him, and the trucker accepted the crumpled bills at a trot, heading quickly back to the truck’s cab.
Peter slid further behind the tree and sat down, his back against the bark. With the trucker gone, there was no longer safety in numbers. It was the middle of the day, but the nighttime-roaming, prayer-chanting Josh was not far from the front of Peter’s mind. However, Peter couldn’t get himself to leave; he was drawn to Josh, an invisible pulling, but maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. The trucker sure sensed something and couldn’t leave fast enough.
Peter heard the sound of a twig snap and looked up to see Josh standing above him. The sun behind him shaded his face.
Peter scurried to his feet, his height barely reaching Josh’s chest. “Oh, hi.”
Josh looked around Peter’s yard. Peter maneuvered his body to see the expression on Josh’s face. There was none.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked.
Peter fought the initial and strong urge to lie. He figured Josh already knew the answer; the empty driveway gave it away. “She’s at work, but my uncle’s in the backyard with my sister.” He rushed the end part of the sentence.
Josh nodded, and Peter squinted up at him. Peter didn’t know why he always thought of wild animals when he saw Josh, but standing in front of him now was like crossing paths with a bear in the woods—should he make a lot of noise to show a lack of fear, or play dead?
“I forgot your name,” Josh said, not apologizing but merely stating a fact.
“Peter.”
Josh nodded again. “How old are you again, Peter?”
“Twelve and a half.”
Josh scratched the side of his face. “Wow. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a day over twelve, but a whole half.”
Peter felt his face redden. “How old are you?”
Josh leaned down toward him and whispered, “Twenty-three and three quarters.”
Peter had known older people, his parents for one, but out of uncertainty toward the person he was speaking to, he acted impressed.
A man in designer sunglasses and a
