Luke wrapped his hands, large and strong for a 13-year-old, around the lawn mower’s handle. It was Saturday morning, and he was standing in Mrs. King’s front yard. A Canadian chill rode the stiff breeze, severing orange and brown leaves from their branches. He rubbed his reddened hands and blew warm air on them. A flick of the mower’s switch and it growled to life. His fingers stung from the motor’s vibrations as he pushed up and down the yard. On an upward swing he saw Mrs. King waving at him as she stood in a window framed by yellow curtains. The sun struck the glass and bathed her in a golden aura. He waved back.
Since Mrs. King had moved north from Mississippi three years ago, he had been mowing her lawn. About her, he knew little. She served hot chocolate to him on frosty mornings and icy lemonade on hot summer days. She fed stray cats. Other small facts he had learned about her: She talked slowly and her voice resonated with the distinct twang of someone raised in the South. She never cursed (at least he had never heard her). Dresses, she never wore them. She had told him that she had moved around quite a bit before settling here. Two marriages and one divorce. Four children scattered about. Nine grandchildren. She hummed, mostly hymns. And sometimes she grimaced for seemingly no reason.
“I was a substitute teacher in Chattanooga for a few years,” she had said once as the two drank hot cocoa while sitting in her sun room.
“Why’d you quit?”
She sipped her chocolate then ran the tip of her tongue across her lips. The lips curled into a content smile. “How’s your cocoa?” He allowed their talk to move elsewhere.
He thought about her as he guided the mower over the lawn, the cut blades of grass mixing with the multi-colored leaves beneath his stained sneakers. Behind him, his shadow lengthened across the trimmed lawn. A few starlings could be heard in the trees as he turned the mower for the final stretch of turf.
When he finally flicked off the mower’s switch, he paused to survey his work. The look of the fresh-cut lawn filled him with a small pride. Then, he pushed the mower off the grass and rolled it along the path running to the side of the house to where the tool shed stood. He put it between a snow shovel and a rake. As he reached for the leaf blower, a squeal of tires assaulted his ears. He left the blower on its hook and raced from the shed.
Two black sedans were parked at the curb with their doors wide open. Men wearing navy blue coats with FBI written in white letters on their backs were standing in a group at Mrs. King’s front door.
Luke was confused and a little frightened. He jumped when a scarlet leaf broke off a branch, spun through the air and landed on his shoulder. With the back of his hand, he brushed the leaf off and watched it touch down on the lawn among the others.
Without ceremony, the men led Mrs. King away, her tan overcoat draped over her shoulders and covering her hands. As she passed him, she smiled. An agent helped her into the back seat of one of the cars and closed the door. Then both cars sped off down the tree-lined street and disappeared.
Luke stood at the edge of the lawn while the onlookers that had gathered returned to their homes. Then he sat down on the stiff grass and shut his eyes. His head was swimming with conflicted thoughts. At the sound of leaves crunching behind him, his eyes shot open and he turned his head to see his mother standing a few feet away.
She sat down and draped an arm around him. Looking into his uncertain eyes, she said: “Sometimes people aren’t who you think they are.”
“But she was nice,” he protested.
When they returned home an hour later, the television in the kitchen was on and Luke watched with morbid curiosity. “Cynthia Shifter, also known as Helene Jeanne King had been living in this area for nearly three years.”
On the screen was a photo of a young woman with striking auburn hair piled on top in a beehive. Luke stared at the younger, prettier Mrs. King.
“Shifter had been on the run for nearly thirty-five years, having never stood trial as the main accomplice in the murder of civil rights activist, Rodney Bean.”
It was incomprehensible. He shook his head as if it would make this more believable or understandable.
“Authorities had been tracking Shifter through many states until a recent tip heated up what had been a long, cold trail.”
He shut his eyes and balled his hands into fists. But he could still hear the newscaster. Opening his eyes, he grabbed the remote and switched off the set. Then, he walked to his room and sat on the bed. His mother appeared in the doorway.
“Feeling any better, babe?”
He shrugged.
She leaned over to run a hand through his hair. But after a few moments, she left him alone again.
He stayed in the room for a few hours. Walking to the window and pulling the curtain away, he looked past his front yard. In the late afternoon light, shadows knifed across the freshly cut grass of Mrs. King’s lawn. The news trucks were still parked outside, although the reporters were nowhere to be seen. A few people gawked at the house from the sidewalk.
Luke left the room and went outside. He walked slowly toward the little yellow house. He stopped beside a lanky man with a scraggly beard. “Did you know her?” the man asked.
Luke nodded.
“Hope she gets what she deserves,” said a woman with pock-marked skin standing nearby.
Luke glared at her and barked: “She was a good person. Then he turned and stalked off down the street. A hard wind kicked up, and he thrust his hands into his coat pockets. Winter was coming, faster than expected.
He walked down familiar neighborhood streets. The scenery blurred. Night fell. The air grew colder, sharper, more biting. He pulled up his collar, protecting his exposed neck. His anger rose under the glowing street lights. Leaves swirled around him. His shoes kicked them up as he walked. He inhaled the frigid air. White steam flowed like car exhaust from his mouth. His teeth chattered. But the cold was calming to him, and soon he slowed and turned to head back home.
Later that night, much later, the buzz of the lawnmower broke the sleepy silence of the suburban street. Luke was pushing it across Mrs. King’s lawn. Behind him, her house stood unlit except for a single security lamp attached to the porch. Howls and barks soon added to the cacophony as the neighborhood dogs reacted to the buzz of the machine. Lights came on in the other houses on the block.
Neighbors began to gather on the sidewalk. “What the hell are you doing?” shouted one of them. But Luke stared straight ahead and continued to push the mower over the already cut grass. Patches of dirt appeared where he was wearing ruts into the sod with the wheels of the mower.
Luke’s mother pushed her way through the crowd of people. At the edge of what was once grass, she stopped for a moment, watching her son. Finally she stepped onto the lawn and walked to him. When he saw her, he shut off the mower. The silence was uncomfortable and soon people were turning to go back to their homes.
When the final neighbor had left, Luke stepped into his mother’s waiting arms and let them close in on him. She held tight. The glow of the street lamps made his blue eyes sparkle as he stared over her shoulder at Mrs. King’s lawn.
Since Mrs. King had moved north from Mississippi three years ago, he had been mowing her lawn. About her, he knew little. She served hot chocolate to him on frosty mornings and icy lemonade on hot summer days. She fed stray cats. Other small facts he had learned about her: She talked slowly and her voice resonated with the distinct twang of someone raised in the South. She never cursed (at least he had never heard her). Dresses, she never wore them. She had told him that she had moved around quite a bit before settling here. Two marriages and one divorce. Four children scattered about. Nine grandchildren. She hummed, mostly hymns. And sometimes she grimaced for seemingly no reason.
“I was a substitute teacher in Chattanooga for a few years,” she had said once as the two drank hot cocoa while sitting in her sun room.
“Why’d you quit?”
She sipped her chocolate then ran the tip of her tongue across her lips. The lips curled into a content smile. “How’s your cocoa?” He allowed their talk to move elsewhere.
He thought about her as he guided the mower over the lawn, the cut blades of grass mixing with the multi-colored leaves beneath his stained sneakers. Behind him, his shadow lengthened across the trimmed lawn. A few starlings could be heard in the trees as he turned the mower for the final stretch of turf.
When he finally flicked off the mower’s switch, he paused to survey his work. The look of the fresh-cut lawn filled him with a small pride. Then, he pushed the mower off the grass and rolled it along the path running to the side of the house to where the tool shed stood. He put it between a snow shovel and a rake. As he reached for the leaf blower, a squeal of tires assaulted his ears. He left the blower on its hook and raced from the shed.
Two black sedans were parked at the curb with their doors wide open. Men wearing navy blue coats with FBI written in white letters on their backs were standing in a group at Mrs. King’s front door.
Luke was confused and a little frightened. He jumped when a scarlet leaf broke off a branch, spun through the air and landed on his shoulder. With the back of his hand, he brushed the leaf off and watched it touch down on the lawn among the others.
Without ceremony, the men led Mrs. King away, her tan overcoat draped over her shoulders and covering her hands. As she passed him, she smiled. An agent helped her into the back seat of one of the cars and closed the door. Then both cars sped off down the tree-lined street and disappeared.
Luke stood at the edge of the lawn while the onlookers that had gathered returned to their homes. Then he sat down on the stiff grass and shut his eyes. His head was swimming with conflicted thoughts. At the sound of leaves crunching behind him, his eyes shot open and he turned his head to see his mother standing a few feet away.
She sat down and draped an arm around him. Looking into his uncertain eyes, she said: “Sometimes people aren’t who you think they are.”
“But she was nice,” he protested.
When they returned home an hour later, the television in the kitchen was on and Luke watched with morbid curiosity. “Cynthia Shifter, also known as Helene Jeanne King had been living in this area for nearly three years.”
On the screen was a photo of a young woman with striking auburn hair piled on top in a beehive. Luke stared at the younger, prettier Mrs. King.
“Shifter had been on the run for nearly thirty-five years, having never stood trial as the main accomplice in the murder of civil rights activist, Rodney Bean.”
It was incomprehensible. He shook his head as if it would make this more believable or understandable.
“Authorities had been tracking Shifter through many states until a recent tip heated up what had been a long, cold trail.”
He shut his eyes and balled his hands into fists. But he could still hear the newscaster. Opening his eyes, he grabbed the remote and switched off the set. Then, he walked to his room and sat on the bed. His mother appeared in the doorway.
“Feeling any better, babe?”
He shrugged.
She leaned over to run a hand through his hair. But after a few moments, she left him alone again.
He stayed in the room for a few hours. Walking to the window and pulling the curtain away, he looked past his front yard. In the late afternoon light, shadows knifed across the freshly cut grass of Mrs. King’s lawn. The news trucks were still parked outside, although the reporters were nowhere to be seen. A few people gawked at the house from the sidewalk.
Luke left the room and went outside. He walked slowly toward the little yellow house. He stopped beside a lanky man with a scraggly beard. “Did you know her?” the man asked.
Luke nodded.
“Hope she gets what she deserves,” said a woman with pock-marked skin standing nearby.
Luke glared at her and barked: “She was a good person. Then he turned and stalked off down the street. A hard wind kicked up, and he thrust his hands into his coat pockets. Winter was coming, faster than expected.
He walked down familiar neighborhood streets. The scenery blurred. Night fell. The air grew colder, sharper, more biting. He pulled up his collar, protecting his exposed neck. His anger rose under the glowing street lights. Leaves swirled around him. His shoes kicked them up as he walked. He inhaled the frigid air. White steam flowed like car exhaust from his mouth. His teeth chattered. But the cold was calming to him, and soon he slowed and turned to head back home.
Later that night, much later, the buzz of the lawnmower broke the sleepy silence of the suburban street. Luke was pushing it across Mrs. King’s lawn. Behind him, her house stood unlit except for a single security lamp attached to the porch. Howls and barks soon added to the cacophony as the neighborhood dogs reacted to the buzz of the machine. Lights came on in the other houses on the block.
Neighbors began to gather on the sidewalk. “What the hell are you doing?” shouted one of them. But Luke stared straight ahead and continued to push the mower over the already cut grass. Patches of dirt appeared where he was wearing ruts into the sod with the wheels of the mower.
Luke’s mother pushed her way through the crowd of people. At the edge of what was once grass, she stopped for a moment, watching her son. Finally she stepped onto the lawn and walked to him. When he saw her, he shut off the mower. The silence was uncomfortable and soon people were turning to go back to their homes.
When the final neighbor had left, Luke stepped into his mother’s waiting arms and let them close in on him. She held tight. The glow of the street lamps made his blue eyes sparkle as he stared over her shoulder at Mrs. King’s lawn.
