from a bottle somewhere. His face, despite the age it proclaimed, was full, his eyes squinting, and his pale lips worked soundlessly for a few moments as he considered.
"Art? That you, Art?" Such astonishment in anyone else would have been close to insulting.
"Me, Cal. Just... you know, just walking around it's so damned hot. Thought I would drop by and say hello."
Schiller opened the door without hesitating, and Art shrugged a why the hell not? to himself as he stepped over the threshold.
It was hot inside, but a pair of fans on the counter eased the pressure in the kitchen where they sat at a small round table gleaming wetly from a fresh cleaning. A can of Australian beer appeared in his hand. He nodded his thanks and took several full svvallows to fill in the suddenly uncomfortable silence.
"It's been a while, Art/' Schiller said. His voice was high, thin, a reed waiting for the wind to snap it.
"Couple of weeks, I guess, yeah." He took another drink, another, and passed the cold can over his forehead.
Calvin shrugged. "Could be worse."
Art finished the can—nearly a full quart—and there was another in front of him before he could refuse.
"What can I do for you?”
He didn't know what to say, but he said it anyway: "Cal, we're not exactly brothers under the skin and all that, and I don't want you to take offense—"
"None taken, Art. You must know me well enough for that, anyway, right?"
"—but I can't..."He inhaled deeply. Felicity, he knew, would kill him when she found out. His smile was weak, though it pretended to be hearty. "Look, this is silly, Cal, but... y'know, I can't help seeing all those toys out there every day when I go to work. Now, my wife says it's none of my business, and perhaps it isn't, but... ah, damnit!"
Calvin chuckled, his hands cupped loosely around a beer can and rolling it slowly. "It really isn't your business, you know," he said, not unkindly. Then his grin became mischievous. "But it is damned curious, isn't it."
Art looked at him and away, wondering if he should smile, wondering further if this cadaverous old man were mocking him behind that squint. Finally, he nodded.
"Thing is," the old man said, "they're for my little darlin's."
"Oh?"
"Yep."
"You mean, grandchildren, something like that?"
Calvin smiled again. "Grandchildren?" He leaned back in his chair and look heavenward. "Lord, no! My God, no!" He scratched at one barely shaven cheek. "No, just those little darlin's that come around now and again, off and on, you know how it is. Milk and cookies, a few hours on the slides and swings, and home again.
Sometimes they come back, sometimes they don't. Ellie Nedsworth down the street there, she sends over her grandnieces and such when they come up from Jersey. Can't stand them around the house, she says. I keep 'em out of her hair. Mrs. Heidleman—the one what lost her daughter last winter?—she has seven grandchildren and hates every last one of them. She should, believe me. And especially this time of year. You know how it is—the heat makes them restless. Sometimes you can't control them."
Art thought of his son at that age and nodded.
"Course, what with them stupid animals having to up and die right in my front yard almost..." The old man shook his head. "Poor old Ellie, she wanted me to rake the sandbox to look for the rest of that fool cat's body. Can you imagine it? Poor old soul. Crazy as a loon."
Art blinked. "A... babysitter." He felt incredibly foolish when Calvin nodded. "You know, Cal, if you knew how I feel right now—“
"No need," Calvin said, waving a generous hand. "No need at all. Look at it this way—if I hadn't those things out there, you wouldn't have come by, we wouldn't talked. I don't have kids here at night, of course. They're all asleep."
"Just the same, that's all pretty damned good of you, you know that, Cal."
"Oh, not at all. A man moves around as much as I have in my life, he likes to get to know the neighborhood. Best way for
"Art? That you, Art?" Such astonishment in anyone else would have been close to insulting.
"Me, Cal. Just... you know, just walking around it's so damned hot. Thought I would drop by and say hello."
Schiller opened the door without hesitating, and Art shrugged a why the hell not? to himself as he stepped over the threshold.
It was hot inside, but a pair of fans on the counter eased the pressure in the kitchen where they sat at a small round table gleaming wetly from a fresh cleaning. A can of Australian beer appeared in his hand. He nodded his thanks and took several full svvallows to fill in the suddenly uncomfortable silence.
"It's been a while, Art/' Schiller said. His voice was high, thin, a reed waiting for the wind to snap it.
"Couple of weeks, I guess, yeah." He took another drink, another, and passed the cold can over his forehead.
Calvin shrugged. "Could be worse."
Art finished the can—nearly a full quart—and there was another in front of him before he could refuse.
"What can I do for you?”
He didn't know what to say, but he said it anyway: "Cal, we're not exactly brothers under the skin and all that, and I don't want you to take offense—"
"None taken, Art. You must know me well enough for that, anyway, right?"
"—but I can't..."He inhaled deeply. Felicity, he knew, would kill him when she found out. His smile was weak, though it pretended to be hearty. "Look, this is silly, Cal, but... y'know, I can't help seeing all those toys out there every day when I go to work. Now, my wife says it's none of my business, and perhaps it isn't, but... ah, damnit!"
Calvin chuckled, his hands cupped loosely around a beer can and rolling it slowly. "It really isn't your business, you know," he said, not unkindly. Then his grin became mischievous. "But it is damned curious, isn't it."
Art looked at him and away, wondering if he should smile, wondering further if this cadaverous old man were mocking him behind that squint. Finally, he nodded.
"Thing is," the old man said, "they're for my little darlin's."
"Oh?"
"Yep."
"You mean, grandchildren, something like that?"
Calvin smiled again. "Grandchildren?" He leaned back in his chair and look heavenward. "Lord, no! My God, no!" He scratched at one barely shaven cheek. "No, just those little darlin's that come around now and again, off and on, you know how it is. Milk and cookies, a few hours on the slides and swings, and home again.
Sometimes they come back, sometimes they don't. Ellie Nedsworth down the street there, she sends over her grandnieces and such when they come up from Jersey. Can't stand them around the house, she says. I keep 'em out of her hair. Mrs. Heidleman—the one what lost her daughter last winter?—she has seven grandchildren and hates every last one of them. She should, believe me. And especially this time of year. You know how it is—the heat makes them restless. Sometimes you can't control them."
Art thought of his son at that age and nodded.
"Course, what with them stupid animals having to up and die right in my front yard almost..." The old man shook his head. "Poor old Ellie, she wanted me to rake the sandbox to look for the rest of that fool cat's body. Can you imagine it? Poor old soul. Crazy as a loon."
Art blinked. "A... babysitter." He felt incredibly foolish when Calvin nodded. "You know, Cal, if you knew how I feel right now—“
"No need," Calvin said, waving a generous hand. "No need at all. Look at it this way—if I hadn't those things out there, you wouldn't have come by, we wouldn't talked. I don't have kids here at night, of course. They're all asleep."
"Just the same, that's all pretty damned good of you, you know that, Cal."
"Oh, not at all. A man moves around as much as I have in my life, he likes to get to know the neighborhood. Best way for
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