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I didn’t see the white truck again until the third of July. Mr. Powell, his family and the minister’s family were going to spend Independence Day at Mrs. Powell’s. I was preparing all kinds of food for them: red velvet cake, lemon ice box pie, green beans, cheese grits casserole and collards. The kitchen smelled of rising cinnamon buns and simmering black-eyed peas. I was whipping egg whites into soft peaks with the handheld mixer when I saw the truck pull up. The Mexican got out, wearing the same attire as last time. He went around the back of his truck, pulled the tailgate down and lifted up a sheet of plywood. He shoved the wood over the rotting steps, creating a ramp to the door. My grip on the mixer slackened, and the beaters reared up and splattered egg whites across my blouse.
“Ugh!” I set down the mixer and bowl and tried to clean myself with a paper towel, but hot tears blurred my vision. Then I did something I hadn’t done since I was ten and huddled in the school bathroom during the class Thanksgiving play. I wept.
The man continued to haul equipment inside: a saw, a sledge hammer and saw horses. He didn’t come out for several hours while I was snapping beans, cleaning collards and fixing the television remote for Mrs. Powell. But I knew he was in there, taking down the fixtures and doors for selling and ripping up the wood to make pretty floors for rich people’s homes.
Around five, he stepped outside — his gait was stiffer than before. He pulled a bottle from a cooler in the back of his truck and drank from it. I had the most un-Christian urge to kick his lame leg, shout at him and call him all those bad names Dad’s friends call Mexicans. I quickly prayed for forgiveness, but that didn’t make the tightness and hurt in my chest go away.
Mr. Powell’s family members were beautiful people, the types that made me feel clumsy and dull like I did back in school. His daughter was a blonde young woman — real honey blonde, not like Sharee’s hair — with smooth clean skin, bright eyes and a dazzling smile. I couldn’t help but stare at her, marveling at how everything seemed brighter in her presence. I could see why a fancy Atlanta lawyer would give her that beautiful engagement ring that once belonged to his grandmother. She held Mrs. Powell’s hand and told her that the wedding ceremony was going to take place at a beautiful church in a part of Atlanta called Dunwoody. The bridesmaids would wear pale pink silk tea gowns and hold bouquets of white lilies. Mr. Powell’s son was lean, tanned and a bit gawky. He and some of his friends had just spent a week up on the Appalachian Trail. He seemed nervous and kept brushing his hands over his pants legs.
After awhile, I excused myself and went out back where Mr. Powell and the minister were cooking hamburgers on a portable grill. I started to set the picnic table with red plastic utensils and plates decorated with American flags. Up at the old house, the Mexican was hauling lumber from his truck bed.
“Looks like we’re gonna get a new neighbor,” Mr. Powell said, derision coloring his words. “Probably move all his friends in, too. You know how them Mexicans are. Bozeman ought to have torn that place down years ago.”
The minister studied the ice in his glass and then took a long sip of tea. “Randall Bozeman told me that the boy works out on the base. That he’s a captain. Did several tours in Iraq before he got his leg blown up.”
Mr. Powell visibly flinched. His face became even redder.
“Paid cash for the place and says he’s gonna fix it up,” the minister finished.
My gaze flew to the house. The Mexican had hoisted the wood onto his shoulder and was limping inside. A tight squeak escaped in my throat, but nobody heard.
After dinner, I stood at the kitchen window, wrapping leftover red velvet cake in tin foil for the minister to take home. The light was beginning to fade, and the air was cooling down as evening approached. The Mexican’s truck was still there.
Mr. Powell came in to get a pitcher of sweet tea from the refrigerator. He followed my gaze. After a moment, he said, “Amber, why don’t you take him some of that good icebox pie you made?”
So with the pan in my shaking hand, I passed through the pecan orchard. The tall grass left little black seeds on the hem of my skirt.
He wasn’t outside, but I could hear the shrill sound of a saw running upstairs. I walked up the ramp and knocked on the door. It slowly swung open as if it wasn’t shut properly. I took a step over the threshold. A blue cooler sat in the doorway to the kitchen, and several sections of sheet rock were propped against the wall.
The saw wound down.
“Hello?” I said. My high voice echoed through the empty rooms.
“Be there in a minute,” a man’s voice shouted down.
I heard dragging footsteps on the floor above and then clomping down the stairs. The Mexican appeared at the end of the hall. A sheen of sweat shone on his high cheek bones and forehead. His eyes were as shiny as obsidian.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, causing his hair to spike in the front.
“I’m… um…Amber,” I said, swaying on my feet like a little girl. “I…er…stay with Mrs. Powell back there, and we…uh…we had some leftover pie. We thought you might want some.” I held out the pie.
“Oh, wow, thanks.” He took the pan. His long fingers were powdered with sawdust. “Did you make it?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“I’m Victor Diaz,” he said as he bent over and put the pie in the cooler. Then he reached in for a Diet Coke. “Do you want one?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you.”
“So, you are the first neighbor I’ve met.” He had an easy tone over a hard edge that reminded me of a police officer’s.
“Are…are you going to live here?”
He screwed off the top of the bottle and carbonation rushed up. He took a large swallow and wiped his forehead again before he answered my question. “Do you have a problem with a Latino neighbor?”
My head heated with embarrassment, realizing he thought I meant something else entirely. “No, no, I mean, I thought…I was scared that you might tear the place down. I love this house. I have since I was a child. I used to imagine it all fixed up and with a nice garden.”
He studied me for a minute. Some of the hardness left his eyes.
“Do you want to see what I’ve done?” he asked. “It’s nothing exciting at the moment. Just tearing out the rot and pulling out old wiring.”
My “yes” came out like a rush of breath.
He followed me up the stairs. I noticed he used his hands when he spoke. He didn’t flick them about in abrupt gestures like Sharee. He spread his fingers over the walls when he talked about trying to save as much of the old wood as he could. He tugged at the old electrical wires when he explained how he would have to rewire the house and add blown insulation. When he said we should go to the other room, he placed his hand on the back of my shoulder to lead me. The pressure of his fingers sent a giddy yet gentle sensation over my skin. I had been in the same room with Jeff over a year ago, his hand on me as well. But with Victor, I wasn’t afraid.
Through the dusty windows, I could see the tops of the pecan trees. The sky was darkening to purple and the chirping of cicadas drifted up from the grass. Beyond the grove, flames flickered from the citronella candles Mr. Powell was setting about his mama’s patio.
“I have to go,” I said, although I didn’t want to. For a moment, I stood still, letting my gaze drift over the walls and thin boards running across the high ceiling. “I’m glad you’re fixing it up,” I whispered.
As he followed me down the stairs, he had to grip the railing so hard that his knuckles whitened. I almost reached out to hold his elbow like I did Mrs. Powell’s, but I stopped myself.
At the back door, he held out his hand. “It was nice to meet you,” I said.
I put my hand in his. There was a reassurance in his touch. His eyes were guarded, but an easy smile played on his lips. I wondered about all he had seen in the war – perhaps the death of his friends or Iraqi people. What was he doing when he was hurt? Had a bomb gone off? How long had he been in the hospital? Could the doctors save his leg, or did he wear a prosthetic?
“I enjoyed meeting you as well,” he said, and held on for another moment, before releasing my fingers. “If you want to come back, you know, I will be here most late afternoons and weekends.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling my neck and face flush. I turned and hurried down the ramp, feeling self-conscious. But I realized I was being ungracious and spun back around.
“I’m always here,” I said. My nerves were crackling, and I fell over my words. “I – I can bring you food. And—and I can help you. I mean, if you want…”
The wind blew Victor’s hair, and his skin looked golden in the jewel light of dusk. “I would like that,” he said softly.
Warmth flooded my chest and took my breath, like I had come across an old, almost-forgotten photograph from years ago. As if this moment was already a cherished memory.
The End
I like it.