I start to follow my girls into the street but step back. I sit on the porch while they run with the other kids. I wonder if Karen realizes why at least two of the neighborhood boys are following her around. It fills me with a subtle dread at the same time that I can’t help but smile.
She’s still in that weird phase between the end of childhood innocence and the awakening of adult feelings, and I don’t want her getting dragged into it too fast. The boys seem innocent enough, the same way. They know they should pay attention to girls now but they’re a little clueless as to why, and when they get together they still act like kids, running and playing, excited.
Kelly dives into the bouncy castle. She’ll probably devour an entire cow tonight to replace all those calories.
I’m not the only parent hanging back. We sort of fade into a collective responsibility, giving our kids a little freedom from afar. I sit on the porch and watch, sipping water as the day slides by and starts to get hot, too hot for September. It’s almost October now. It should be cool in the day but it’ll hit eighty, I’m sure of it.
Sweat trickles down my back and I glance over at Quentin’s house.
No signs of life.
What did Kelly mean, about what he said? Being nice to us couldn’t make up for something?
What does he need to make up for?
Here I am again, mooning over him like a ditzy teenager with a crush. I wanted to think it was more than that, more than just physical attraction. I’m sort of past my prime anyway.I can’t believe somebody would be into me just for my looks anymore.
I down the rest of the water and head over to his house, looking back at Kelly and Karen to make sure they’re okay. They’re just fine. I can relax a little. The music is starting up. There will be hot dogs soon. I hope Kelly leaves some for the rest of the block.
There’s no answer when I knock at the door. Typical. I just want to talk to him. I want an answer. I don’t want to be brushed off.
I stand there as long as I dare, before somebody might notice, then start back.
I stop at the end of the front walk and glance at the backyard. Past the garage, I walk around the back as my heart beats a little faster. The house is the same pattern as mine, so I’m familiar with the layout. There are two sliding windows on either side of a basement door with its own set of steps.
You shouldn’t be doing this, Rose.
I check the basement door. Locked.
I check one of the windows. Locked.
The other window slides open silently.
I look at it for a half minute, my heart pounding in my chest. What do I do? Quentin probably didn’t bother checking or locking it, figuring that no one could get in through it.
Well, a grown man couldn’t, but I can if I skinny through.
God, this is stupid, Rose. What the hell are you doing?
I sit in the grass, poke my feet through, and start shimmying my way into the opening. I have to put my hands on my chest and press myself flat and suck in a breath to fit, and dangle in space with my feet kicking in empty air before I feel something cool and metal with my toes. The dryer, probably. I grab the windowsill and slip in, and end up falling on my butt on top of his dryer with a squeak.
God, Rose. Are you insane? Get out now.
I could just climb back out but I don’t.I lower my feet to the floor. It’s dark down here, the lights are out, but the windows are uncovered and cut two rays of bright light across the basement, and cast a hazy gloom everywhere else.
I yelp and yank my hand back as a hairy spider skitters along the block wall behind me. I take a deep breath and look around.
It’s…a basement.
I already know the floor plan. All of the electrical and utility junk is by the window I just climbed through. There’s not going to be much else in the basement unless it’s finished, which it is not.
I make my way through the room, slowly. There’s a lot of stuff down here. At the far end is some gym equipment, a bench and barbells and big metal weights all on a rubber pad, and what must be a place for him to grab onto and do pullups. The rest of the room is full of boxes and boxes, and crates, actual crates made of wood.
One of them is as big as a coffin. Curious, I tug at the lid, and it rattles a little but doesn’t move. It must be nailed down.I shouldn’t touch it.
No, there are latches, heavy-duty latches like some kind of footlocker. I smear some dust away with my hand and find something written on the side in Cyrillic.
Uh, what?
I can’t help myself. I flip the latches and raise the lid. Inside is all padded foam, covered by a thin layer of the same material. I push the lid all the way back.
Under the foam blanket is a skinny tube, maybe five feet in length, with one flared end and the other straight. Sitting in little niches are conical objects a bit smaller than a football, with tubular ends that look like they slot into the big tube.
Gingerly I lower the lid back in place and latch it shut. There’s another crate. The lid is nailed down, but I don’t need to open it. On the side, stenciled, it reads, DANGER: HIGH EXPLOSIVES.
“What the fuck?” I whisper.