give more would be to imply there was some reason to meet in the first place, which there most certainly was not. “What about Jan?” he wondered. “Should she come too?”
Rudy gave this some thought. “Why don’t we just keep it amongst the men for now,” he decided. “If we decide there’s reason to proceed, we’ll bring in the wives at the next meeting.”
“Yeah, well…” Larry’s expression turned weary and sour, as if he’d committed himself to picking up trash along the highway for the next two weekends. “I can tell you right now how
Rudy took a deep breath and let it out. “Try to come with an open mind, Larry.”
“I’m not even promising I’ll come,” Larry replied, “but if I do, I’ll come with the mind I’ve got.”
Rudy nodded, spying Bud Iverson’s Cadillac sailing quietly up the street, as regal and as polished as when it left the showroom floor. It turned squarely into its driveway, waited patiently while the electric garage door opened, then came to rest on its spotless concrete pad.
Folding his map in half, Rudy excused himself and hurried over before the garage could swing shut again.
4
At 62, Bud Iverson was the undisputed patriarch of Quail Street. He and Helen had bought their house thirty years ago and raised four daughters in the immaculate split-level standing adjacent to the Hanna’s. All four girls had since moved out — the youngest heading off to college three years ago — leaving Bud and Helen to rattle about the oversized house on their own. The Cadillac gave Bud something to fawn over in the absence of his daughters, while Helen simply redoubled her efforts in the flowerbeds and garden.
She served Rudy and her husband tall glasses of iced tea and then withdrew from the room to let them talk, saying she’d be in the back yard if Janie, their eldest daughter, called. The two of them were going out shopping together after lunch.
Bud nodded in acknowledgement then waited until his wife was out of earshot. He looked Rudy over, his gaze penetrating: a sharp and steely blue beneath his wild gray eyebrows. “I take it this has something to do with the troubles we’re having back east?” he said, drawing his conclusion from the brief exchange he and Rudy had passed in the driveway.
Rudy nodded. “I thought it might be a good idea to get together as a neighborhood. Possibly draw up a contingency plan in case it comes our way.” He hesitated as Bud continued to stare across the table at him, as unflinching as a seasoned general. “I saw some footage on the news last night that was fairly shocking. It came out of Chicago, so there’s no question that it’s moving in our direction.”
“I believe I saw the same footage,” Bud said, picking up his iced tea and gazing deep into the glass, past the lemon slice and crushed ice to where a fine brown sediment had settled on the bottom, almost invisible to the naked eye. Bud seemed to read something of the future down there. “What exactly did you have in mind?” he wondered.
“At this point, nothing specific… other than getting together and discussing it.” He picked up his glass out of nervousness. “Truthfully, I’m open to just about anything.”
“Are you open to the possibility that there’s
“Nothing’s too big to fight,” Rudy contended, an edge of defiance in his voice. “We may not win, but as long as my wife and family are alive, I’ll fight it.”
Bud nodded, conceding the point. “Who did you plan on inviting to this discussion?”
“The whole cul-de-sac,” Rudy answered. “Or at least the men — as many of them as will come.”
“I might be able to help you out there,” Bud said, slowly warming to the idea. He picked up the map Rudy had unfolded on the table between them. “Who have you got left to talk to?”
“The Dawleys,” Rudy said then pointed to the bottom of the sheet. “Also these last two bordering Kennedy. The Navaros and the Sturlings.”
“What did Larry have to say?” Bud asked, leaning back, his blue eyes sharp again.
Rudy hesitated, his face becoming fluid, undecided. He took a deep breath. “Larry doesn’t believe the danger will reach this far. He believes the government will arrive at a solution before it spreads this far west.”
“And you don’t,” Bud concluded.
“I suppose anything’s possible,” Rudy replied, “but I’m not counting on it.”
A sardonic smile touched Bud Iverson. “I worked for the government for twenty years,” he confessed, though Rudy was already aware of this. “If they come up with a solution, it’ll be strictly by accident. At this moment, I’d say they’re far more concerned with digging foxholes and shredding documents.”
Rudy looked a little closer at Bud. “Are you convinced the government is responsible?”
“An interesting choice of words, but yes,” he nodded, picking up his tea, “almost certainly.”
The two men gazed at one another then Bud reconsidered the map.
“Mike and Pam are
“Perhaps I’ll speak to his son, Shane. He must be 17 or 18 — driving for at least a year. I’ll ask him to come to the meeting tonight instead of his father.”
“All right,” Bud approved. “While you’re doing that, why don’t I tackle the last two? The Sturlings and the Navaros. I think I can get Don and Keith to come without starting a general panic.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Rudy nodded. “I don’t know them very well. They would probably take the suggestion better coming from you.”
“Well, I’ll do my best,” Bud assured him. “About three o’clock, you say?”
“Yes, if that works out for everyone.”
A flash of chrome and reflected sunlight cut through the window, streaking like a comet across the far wall. A trim, burgundy-colored Accord rolled to a stop in the Iverson’s driveway.
“There’s Janie,” Bud said, regarding his daughter through the window. “Must be getting close to lunch.”
5
Rudy rang the Dawley’s doorbell and waited, standing in the recessed shade of the front step, the house itself grasping him in a loose embrace. To his ears it sounded vacant, or asleep. The light filtering through the textured glass panels that flanked the double doors was a gauzy shade of gray, the color of an old sock. No warm yellow or television flicker to be seen, so Rudy gave a halfhearted knock and then turned away, deciding no one was home.
He was halfway down the walk when the latch clicked quietly behind him. He turned, shading his eyes with his hand. “Shane?” he said, questioning the pale face regarding him through the doorway.
The boy nodded back at him, dyed black hair standing on end above a rim of eyeliner, as if he’d just tumbled out of bed. Skin so white it was edging toward transparency. A small silver hoop piercing the ridge of his right eyebrow.
“I’m sorry,” Rudy apologized, thinking the boy looked ill, or on drugs. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Shane shrugged. “I wasn’t asleep.”
Rudy made his way back to the doorstep. “Is your mother home?”
Shane shook his head. “She got called back to work,” he replied, eyeing Rudy as if he couldn’t quite figure out what this visit was about. The wary expression on his face suspected a complaint. A stereo playing too loudly or too late into the night.
“Actually,” Rudy said, coming to an easy rest with his hands in his pockets, “it was
