to collapse as the gas reaches toward equilibrium. “It’s just the wind,” Cheryl says, but he ignores her. His home is turmoil. Right now poison pours over Cheryl’s clothes and into Stevie’s old room. Next will be the garage, or would that have been first? Ultimately, the order matters little to him. Gas will eventually coil around everything like a cat setting down for a nap: his law books in the attic, the photograph in the family room of Stevie leaning over the rail at Niagara Falls pretending to slip, the Hawaiian leis from a family vacation he can’t quite remember, entire drawers full of odd knickknacks and fading memorabilia that attest to a life well lived, tangible proof of memories made even if the memories themselves rise more sluggishly and infrequently than they used to—all of it, ultimately, choking on gas. But how many of the termites?
He stays awhile longer, watching the tent. Then with a cough he turns to Cheryl. “They’ll do a great job,” he says. He knows that they’ll go above and beyond because he took the time to build a rapport with the man in charge. And in business, as in life, it’s the relationships that matter. “A fine job,” he says. “No problem.”
Cheryl looks down at her nails and taps her foot. “Can we go now?”
“Whatever you want, heart of my heart.”
Taking her hand, he kisses her on the knuckles, but the static charge has barely left her skin before, wide-eyed, she yanks her hand away.
“I may have accidentally touched the poison,” she whispers, half apologizing.
Orlando feels like an extension of Apopka. Or maybe it’s the other way around. A mall looms in the distance, and before that a multiplex cradled by a handful of shops. But mostly the streets are wide and residential. If a difference exists between the neighboring cities at all it’s in the way faux-Spanish architecture dresses up the vernacular of simple midcentury bungalows in Orlando to a greater degree than it does in Apopka. Thaddeus is having a hard time navigating it. It’s been years since he’s been in the suburbs beyond downtown.
“Lot of new construction,” he says.
“Uh-huh,” Cheryl says. “You’re going to want to make a left at the light. It’s the one with the waterfall.”
He maneuvers into a turning lane, dutifully engages his directional signal, and waits. Traffic roils from the horizon like salmon on run. In Apopka traffic’s not so bad, or maybe it is and he’s simply accustomed to it. (The streets by their house, at least, are familiar.) An oasis pools in the middle distance. A final car swims through a long yellow light, then Thaddeus proceeds, on Cheryl’s direction, passing smoothly through a portal of blue tile and lacquered calligraphy spelling out the name PALM FALLS WEST. At the end of a long drive flanked by hedges and iron lattices stands a security kiosk, built with unassuming white concrete that could just as easily be calcified runoff from the eponymous waterfall.
“Gated community.” He whistles. “You didn’t tell me they lived in a gated community.”
“Yes, I did.” She removes her sunglasses and places them in her purse. “All the new ones 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
