Clementines

I thought nobody lived on Sweetfeather Lane anymore. The man with deep lines in his face seemed just as surprised to see someone else, but he didn’t seem to be bothered by it. Tattered briefcase in one hand, newspaper in the other, he made slow, heavy steps down the fractured sidewalk, until he came to the house. The tire swing was the only real thing that made it stand out from the rest of the run-down row of cookie cutter shacks. That, and the big, blackened patch that trailed down the chimney and around one of the upstairs windows. Where the white paint wasn’t peeling it was fading into grey steaks and splotches and the yard was littered with heaps of Spanish moss. It even hung from the porch like gnarled earth icicles. I shifted my gaze back at the man, who was bent down, plucking a thick cluster of weeds that were choking the rusted mailbox. What good does he think that’s gonna do? I thought. You could pick a whole barrel of weeds and it wouldn’t help this place any! The man paused and looked up to face me, about the time when I heard the chuckle that was supposed to stay behind my lips. I hated that I blushed, but I did, and turned away, fumbling to find my footing on my bike pedal again. 

“Evening, Miss,” he said. 

I froze. 

“Good evening,” was what I knew you were supposed to say back, but I made it stay stuck in my throat. He didn’t holler or tell me to move along. He didn’t even ask what I thought I was doing there. Instead, he just smiled tiredly and tipped a sweat stained hat. I sat, perched as ladylike as possible on my bike, and watched as the man turned to open the rickety gate. He walked across the unkept lawn, skipping the porch step that was cratered in, onto the weed-ridden porch of the old house. 

Before he could open the door, a thunderstorm of six little feet burst onto the porch with hugs and giggles and he belly laughed as he swooped the littlest one up in his arms. I put my bike stand down. A mousy woman with soiled gardening gloves appeared quickly from behind the house. She seemed kind of flustered, stumbling across the yard, darting eyes scanning the street, and brushing right past me. Registering her face, he corralled the three girls back inside. He turned to the woman, who was stepping onto the porch with a pained look. 

“Did they take.. James, where is…how are we…” she stuttered. 

A rough hand laid around her frail shoulder.

“The car?” she rasped.

He nodded.

The door shut behind them and the three girls came bounding into view in the front window, scrambling to mismatched chairs around a table. I bit my lip. I don't care who they are, I thought to myself. I’ve just got nothing better to do, that’s all. I took off my shoes, stuffing them with my lacey socks. Gathering my dress, I glanced around, ducking as I walked across the yard and crouched down in a bush near the window, just close enough to see. What was that smell? I plucked a small branch. Rosemary? 

“What are you doing?” 

 I jerked my head up. 

The oldest one, about my age I guessed, had disappeared. 

“Where did you go?” the littlest one called out again. 

The oldest proudly returned a moment later with a faded lace-trimmed tablecloth. I cringed. She draped the ugly thing over the table with a dramatic flair, and the younger girls applauded and squirmed giddily in their seats. Their brown mess of curls splashed their face as they spun around to watch the man enter the room, glittering eyes fixed on the worn briefcase he set in the middle of the table. The woman slipped quietly behind him into the kitchen, gnawing at her nails. 

“Alright, alright, slow down, now”, the man said. 

I couldn’t quite make it out, but the woman shouted something from the kitchen, which made the girls shrink back reluctantly in their seats. She joined them at the table as they joined hands and bowed their heads. Except for the littlest one. She only squinted to keep her gaze on the strange new centerpiece. The man mumbled something about gratitude and blessings. They’re the praying type of people, I thought. We used to be, too. I couldn’t understand why he used up a whole prayer and didn’t ask God for anything. 

“Amen!!” the girls finished for him. 

With a sparkle in his tired eyes, the man grabbed the briefcase and turned, playfully pretending to march away. Like cannons, the girls sprung from their seats to grab fistfuls of his untucked shirttail and drag him back to the table, giggling. Even from outside, I flinched at the eruption of squeals when the buckles were undone and the briefcase was finally opened. I squinted and shuffled a little closer. Tiny orange fruit spilled out, rolling and bouncing onto the floor faster than little hands could corral them. Clementines. For a reason I couldn’t put my finger on, I caught the smile cracking on my face. For a stranger reason, I let it stay there. The man glanced at the woman, who’s shadowed eyes deepened under the light, but she released her strained face with a chuckle.

“How many you got? Hey, you got four, I only got three!” the littlest chirped, muffled by a mouthful of the sweet fruit. 

“Three? Well, that’s the luckiest number there is. Even luckier than four!”, the oldest piped back, peeling another clementine. The little one smiled and seemed satisfied with that answer.

A short laugh escaped my lips. 

The middle girl scurried off and returned with a small book and placed it shyly in front of the man, who smiled, taking his head from his hands. 

“Let's see here. Where are we going today, little ladies?”, he said, pulling his glasses from his collar. 

The girls gave a squeal and after a fit of protest, all three somehow managed to fit on his lap, their sticky hands full with peeled clementines. The woman opened a drawer, took out a potato sack and sat, sewing, and listening contently. 

It was then that the sticky summer breeze sprayed my hair ribbons into my face, reminding me I didn’t belong here. Suddenly embarrassed, I looked around, cheeks hot with shame of my nosiness. Nosiness about them, of all people, all things. I ducked, scampering back across the yard and grabbed my shoes, which looked extra shiny on the dirt. I kicked up my bike stand and shoved off quickly towards home. Home. It would be quiet at home. Father wouldn’t be home till Thursday. Nearly seven o’ clock, Mother would be reading in the study. She’d be wanting a good excuse for my having dirtied feet and my clothes smelling like… rosemary? Pedaling down the abandoned street, I blinked at the hot wind in my face and tried to smother the strange, feeling of envy that twisted in me. And for a brief, guilty moment, I wished that we weren’t rich.