Gramp clumped back to his chair and found it dripping wet. The automatic mower, having finished its cutting job, had rolled out the hose, was sprinkling the lawn.
Muttering venom, Gramp stalked around the corner of the house and sat down on the bench beside the back porch. He didn't like to sit there, but it was the only place he was safe from the hunk of machinery out in front.
For one thing, the view from the bench was slightly depressing, fronting as it did on street after street of vacant, deserted houses and weed-grown, unkempt yards.
It had one advantage, however. From the bench he could pretend be was slightly deaf and not hear the twitch music the radio was blaring out.
A voice called from the front yard.
'Bill! Bill, where be you?'
Gramp twisted around.
'Here I am, Mark. Back of the house. Hiding from that dadburned mower.'
Mark Bailey limped around the corner of the house, cigarette threatening to set fire to his bushy whiskers.
'Bit early for the game, ain't you?' asked Grump.
'Can't play no game today,' said Mark.
He hobbled over and sat down beside Grump on the bench.
'We're leaving,' he said.
Cramp whirled on him. 'You're leaving!'
'Yeah. Moving out into the country. Lucinda finally talked Herb into it. Never gave him a minute's peace, I guess. Said everyone was moving away to one of them nice country estates and she didn't see no reason why we couldn't.'
Cramp gulped. 'Where to?'
'Don't rightly know,' said Mark. 'Ain't been there myself. To north some place. Up on one of the lakes. Got ten acres of land. Lucinda wanted a hundred, but Herb put down his foot and said ten was enough. After all, one city lot was enough for all these years.'
'Betty was pestering Johnny, too,' said Gramp, 'but he's holding out against her. Says he simply can't do it. Says it wouldn't look right, him the secretary of the Chamber of Commerce and all, if he went moving away from the city.'
'Folks are crazy,' Mark declared. 'Plumb crazy.'
'That's a fact,' Cramp agreed. 'Country crazy, that's what they are. Look across there.'
He waved his hand at the streets of vacant houses. 'Can remember the time when those places were as pretty a bunch of homes as you ever laid your eyes on. Good neighbours, they were. Women ran across from one back door to another to trade recipes. And the men folks would go out to cut the grass and pretty soon the mowers would all be sitting idle and the men would be ganged up, chewing the fat. Friendly people, Mark. But look at it now.'
Mark stirred uneasily. 'Got to be getting back, Bill. Just sneaked over to let you know we were lighting out. Lucinda's got me packing. She'd be sore if she knew I'd run out.'
Cramp rose stiffly and held out his hand. 'I'll be seeing you again? You be over for one last game?'
Mark shook his head 'Afraid not, Bill'.
They shook hands awkwardly, abashed. 'S5ure will miss them games,' said Mark.
'Me, too,' said Gramp. 'I won't have nobody once you're gone.'
'So long, Bill,' said Mark.
'So long,' said Champ.
He stood and watched his friend hobble around the house, felt the cold claw of loneliness reach out and touch him with icy fingers. A terrible loneliness. The loneliness of age — of age and the outdated. Fiercely, Gramp admitted it. He was outdated. He belonged to another age. He had outstripped his time, lived beyond his years.
Eyes misty, he fumbled for the cane that lay against the bench, slowly made his way towards the sagging gate that opened on to the deserted street back of the house.
The years had moved too fast. Years that had brought the family plane and helicopter, leaving the auto to rust in some forgotten place, the unused roads to fall into disrepair. Years that had virtually wiped out the tilling of the soil with the rise of hydroponics. Years that had brought cheap land with the disappearance of the farm as an economic unit, had sent city people scurrying out into the country where each man, for less than the price of a city lot, might own broad acres. Years had revolutionized the construction of homes to a point where families simply walked away from their old homes to the new ones that could be bought, custom-made, for less than half the price of a prewar structure and could be changed at small cost, to accommodate need of additional space or just a passing whim.
Gramp sniffed. Houses that could be changed each year, like one would shift around the furniture. What kind of thing was that?
He plodded slowly down the dusty path that was all that remained of what a few years before had been a busy residencial street. A street of ghosts, Cramp told himself — of furtive, little ghosts that whispered in the night. Ghosts of playing children, ghosts of upset tricycles and canted coaster wagons. Ghosts of gossiping housewives. Ghosts of shouted greetings. Ghosts of flaming fireplaces and chimneys smoking of a winter night.
Little puffs of dust rose around his feet and whitened the cuffs of his trousers.
There was the old Adams place across the way. Adams had been mighty proud of it, he remembered. Grey field stone front and picture windows. Now the stone was green with creeping moss and the broken windows gaped with ghastly leer. Weeds choked the lawn and blotted out the stoop. An elm tree was pushing its branches against the gable. Gramp could remember the day Adams had planted that elm tree.
For a moment he stood there in the grass-grown street, feet in the dust, both hands clutching the curve of his cane, eyes closed.
Through the fog of years he heard the cry of playing children, the barking of Conrad's yapping pooch from down the street. And there was Adams, stripped to the waist, plying the shovel, scooping out the hole, with the elm tree, roots wrapped in burlap, lying on the lawn.
May, 1946. Forty-four years ago. Just after he and Adams had come home from the war together.
Footsteps padded in the dust and Gramp, startled, opened his eyes.
Before him stood a young man. A man of thirty, perhaps. Maybe a bit less.
'Good morning,' said Gramp.
'I hope,' said the young man, 'that I didn't startle you.'
'You saw me standing here,' asked Gramp, 'like a danged fool, with my eyes shut?'
The young man nodded.
'I was remembering,' said Gramp.
'You live around here?'
'Just down the street. The last one in this part of the City.'
'Perhaps you can help me then.'
'Try me,' said. Gramp.
The young man stammered. 'Well, you see, it's like this. I'm on a sort of… well, you might call it a sentimental pilgrimage-'
'I understand,' said Gramp. 'So am I.'
'My name is Adams,' said the young man. 'My grandfather used to live around here somewhere. I wonder-'
'Right over there,' said Gramp.
Together they stood and stared at the house.
