Irene’s next, all the way up to the side of the house where the propane tank is, wide enough for the delivery truck. She came out on her front step in a pink bathrobe and her husband’s old hunting cap, with Gizmo in a crocheted sweater, and waved with both hands over her head like I was landing an airplane.
By seven, people were standing in every driveway on Juniper Court in pajama pants and boots, holding coffee, watching that old green Ford go up and down. The Lindgren twins cheered every time I dropped the blade.
I did ten driveways.
I saved Grant’s for last.
I wasn’t trying to be petty. Well. A little. Mostly I wanted to see what he’d do.
I sat at the bottom of his drive with the engine idling for a good long time. People were watching.
Finally his front door opened. He came down the steps in a pair of loafers, sinking in up to his shins, and walked to my window. I rolled it down.
