?Mr. Fortlow?? Brenda Marsh said. ?What do you want to do??
?I think I'ma go see Iula down at her diner and have a home-cooked meal,? he replied. ?Yeah. Some home cookin'.?
?But what about Cherry Hill.?
?I'll call ya on Friday, Ms. Marsh.? Socrates touched her forearm with two big fingers and inhaled deeply the scent of her perfume.
?Four hundred and twenty-five dollars a month, Mr. Fortlow,? King Malone said in a rumbling bass voice. ?That includes utilities.?
It was a small garden house in the middle of a green lawn. Killer hopped up and down on his forepaws. Socrates held up the dog's legless hindquarters with a harness attached to a bright yellow nylon rope.
?The dog likes it,? Socrates said. ?What you think, boy??
?Cool,? Darryl crooned. ?It's bad.?
There was a large lemon bush in the center of the lawn. Five feet high and wider still. Golden bees buzzed around the tiny white flowers. A snow white cat flitted in among the leaves of the roses that lined the high redwood fence circling the yard. The sun was hot on Socrates' bald head. He did his best to suppress a grin.
?All I ask is that you keep the lawn mowed and that you rake up after your dog,? King said.
The air was sweet with lemon blossoms. Socrates feared that the image in his eyes would somehow disappear if he blinked or sneezed.
?Topper says that you'd be a good tenant. He said I wouldn't have to worry 'bout you messin' up or havin' them wild parties,? King said.
?Don't party. No,? Socrates said. ?And I put all my trash in a big plastic bag.?
?They pick up on Tuesday afternoons,? King said.
?Say what??
?The trash. They come pick it up in front of the house at about four but you'd do best to have it out there by noon. I got the new rubber cans that the dogs can't knock over.?
Socrates stared at the small crippled man before him. He was trying to decipher the words he just heard. He remembered the smell of the trash fires when he was a boy living outside Indianapolis. He remembered the brown paper bags they gave him for trash in his prison cell. It would take two months to fill that bag.
Inside, the house had real oak floors made from wide planks of cured and stained wood. The walls were painted white with a deep green trim and the windowpanes were so old that they presented a mild distortion of the outside yard. There was a kitchen with a gas stove and a built-in sink. The bedroom was large and surrounded by windows. And the living room was big enough to contain three single cells.
?Whyn't you take it?? Darryl asked later that day when they returned to Socrates' home.
?I'm thinkin' 'bout it, Darryl. You know four hundred and twenty-five dollars is a whole lotta money for a man ain't paid a dime in nine years.?
?You get paid. They pay you at Bounty.?
Socrates loved Darryl and he trusted the boy above anyone else. But he didn't know how to express the fear he had of moving on to some place as beautiful as King Malone's garden home. He'd never lived anywhere that he couldn't leave without a backward look. ?Home is where I hang my hat,? he used to say.
?? or where they hang your neck,? Joe Benz, a fellow inmate, would always add.
?Lemme think about it a couple'a days.?
?But s'pose Mr. Malone rent it before you make up your mind??
?Then I guess I just have to stay here.?
?But I thought you said that Ms. Marsh said that they gonna kick you out??
?Yeah.? Socrates had no desire to stifle his grin. ?Yeah, I'd like to see 'em try.?
