"From what?" I asked.
"From development. Willow Creek is an environmentally sensitive area and one of the last unspoiled areas in Oakwood, but there are plans to build hundreds of homes backing right onto the creek, which will threaten a variety of species, including the Mississauga salamander."
"Who?" It was the first word from Earl.
"Here's a picture," Spender said, releasing a snapshot from under the clip of his clipboard. We looked at a four-legged, pale green creature with oversized eyes resting in a person's hand.
"Looks like a lizard," Earl said.
"It's a salamander," Spender said. "Very rare. And threatened by greedy developers who value profit over the environment." He thrust the clipboard toward us, which held a lined sheet with about twenty signatures on it. There were other pages underneath, but whether they were blank or filled with names I couldn't tell.
I hate signing petitions, even for things I believe in. But when it's an issue where I don't feel fully informed, I have a standard dodge. I said to Spender, "Do you have any literature you could leave me, so I could read up on it?"
"Yeah," said Earl. "Likewise."
Something died in Spender's eyes. He knew he'd lost us. "Just read The Suburban. They've been following the story pretty closely. The big-city papers, like The Metropolitan, they don't give a shit because they're owned by the same corporations that put up the money for these developments."
This didn't seem like a good time to mention where my wife worked. Spender thanked us for our time and turned back for the sidewalk to resume door-knocking. "That house?" I said, pointing. "That's mine, so you can skip it."
"Salamanders," Earl said to me quietly. "Think you can barbecue them?"
"They'd probably slip through the grills," I said.
We chatted a moment longer. I told Earl, even though he hadn't asked, that Paul intended to pursue his interest in landscaping, maybe go to college someday for landscape design. It was, for me, a surprising development. Most kids his age wanted to design video games.
"He's good," Earl offered. "He doesn't mind getting his hands in the dirt."
"It's not my thing. Writers, you put a shovel in our hands, we start whining about blisters after five minutes."
It was looking very much as though Sarah was not going to come to our front door and retrieve her keys. I felt I'd given her long enough to redeem herself, told Earl I had to go, and headed back to our house. On my way in, I took Sarah's set of keys from the lock and slid them into the front pocket of my jeans. I could hear her in the kitchen, and called out, "Hey!"
"Back here," she said. It was a good-sized kitchen, with a bay window looking out onto the backyard, lots of counter space, and a dark spot in the ceiling above the double sink, where water from our improperly tiled shower stall had dripped down over several months. I tried not to look up at it too often; it made me crazy. I had to go over to the home sales office and make a fuss.
My earlier theory that Sarah had come through the front door weighed down with groceries was right. Empty bags littered the top of the kitchen counter. Some carrots and milk still had to be put into the fridge.
I turned to the fridge, which I seemed to recall was white, but was covered with so many magnets and pizza coupons and snapshots that it was hard to be sure. A large part of the door was taken up by a calendar that mapped out our lives a month at a time. It was on here that we recorded dental appointments, Sarah's shifts, lunches with my editor, dinners with friends, all in erasable marker. I noticed, just before I opened the door to put away the carrots and milk, that we were to attend an interview with Paul's science teacher in a little over a week. And a couple of days after that, Sarah's birthday was indicated with stars and exclamation points, drawn by her.
"Hey," she said.
"I heard about the thing, the shooting, on the radio," I said.
Sarah shrugged. "They're gonna take one story for the front, do a color piece for the front of Metro."
"Uh-huh." I had my hand in my pocket, running my fingers over the keys. "You got anything left out in the car that needs to come in?"
"Nope, that's it, I'm done. I shopped, you can cook. I've had it." She'd worked nearly a double shift in the newsroom.
"What am I making?"
"There's chicken, I got some burgers, salad, whatever. I'm beat."
This particular week, Sarah was on a shift where she had to be at the office by six, which meant she was up by half past four in the morning.
"Did you bring in your briefcase?" I thought mentioning the items she typically carries into the house with her might help jog her memory about the keys.
"I got it," she said, sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs and taking off her shoes.
"You wanna beer?" I asked.
"If it comes with a foot massage," Sarah said. I grabbed one from the fridge, twisted off the cap, and handed it to her.