“Are you going home?” I said.
“I could.” He tossed up the keys, then caught them. “I need to make some room in my place, since the church bazaar is this weekend. It’s where I usually get most of my best stuff.”
I thought about the walk home. All of those bright house lights, the occasional glare of high beams coming toward me, making me squint. A ride would have been nice, but now I had to wonder what Norman expected in return.
“I’m okay,” I said, and started across the parking lot.
“So, I, uh, got you something,” he called after me. I turned around. He was standing next to the open passenger door of his wagon, the dome light glowing. In the back seat I could see a stack of egg crates, a lamp that appeared to be shaped like a windmill, and a large plastic goldfish. Norman, the collector.
“Got me something?” I said.
“Yeah.” He sat down in the passenger seat and opened the glove box; there was the ritual explosion of sunglasses. He rummaged through them quickly, glancing up a few times as if to make sure I hadn’t left.
I stayed where I was.
“All right,” he announced triumphantly, picking out one pair and tossing all the others back into the glove box. When he slammed it shut it fell open. Twice. And then stuck, with one good whack.
I came closer as he got out and took a few steps to meet me halfway, under the bright white of the one buzzing street lamp.
“Here.” He deposited the sunglasses in my open hand; I could feel their slight weight in my palm. “I just saw them and, you know, thought of you.”
Thought of me. I looked down at them. They were black, with cat’s-eye-shaped frames, slim and streamlined. Very cool.
“Wow,” I said. “Thanks.” But I ran my tongue over my piercing to remind myself that nothing had really changed. I was still Hole in One, even as I stood under that white, white light with Norman, a cool breeze on the back of my neck.
“Well,” Norman said quickly, to cover my lack of enthusiasm, “I was just at this flea market and I saw them. You know.”
“I know,” I said, tucking them into my shirt pocket. “Thanks.”
He nodded, already retreating.
“ ‘Bye, Norman,” I called out as I reached the edge of the parking lot. He was standing by his car, keys in hand. He waved, but he didn’t say anything.
I walked fast, hands in my pockets, until I heard him drive away. Then I pulled out those sunglasses. A perfect fit. I wore them all the way back to Mira’s.
When I walked up to the house, Isabel was waiting.
“Hey,” she called out, startling me. She was sitting in the yard, cross-legged, a beer in her hand.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice down as I glanced up and saw the light on in Mira’s room. I didn’t know if she was sleeping. “What are you doing?”
She stretched back, resting on her palms. It was a nice night, good for sitting out in the grass. “Killing time,” she said. “I’ve been displaced, you know.” And she nodded over her shoulder toward the little white house. She seemed to be in a better mood.
“Oh,” I said. “Right.” I stepped over the row of small hedges lining the driveway to join her. She had her head tilted back, eyes closed.
I could hear music, faintly, coming from the little house. Celine Dion.
“I hate this song.” Isabel took a big swig off her beer.
I didn’t say anything.
“What time is it?” she asked, opening her eyes and sitting up straight.
I glanced at my watch. “Ten-fifteen.”
She nodded. “Four hours and fifteen minutes late,” she said in a loud voice. “And counting.”
The music stopped, then started again. It was the same song, from the beginning. I could see Morgan moving around inside the little house. There was a bouquet of flowers on the trunk that served as a coffee table, and it looked like all the CDs had been straightened and stacked. She seemed to still be working on it, picking things up and moving them from one side of the room to the other. Every time she passed the door she leaned into the glass, peering out toward the dark road.
“He’s not coming,” Isabel called out.
Morgan opened the door and stuck her head out. “I heard that,” she said. Then she shut the door.
“Good,” Isabel replied quietly. Morgan moved the vase of flowers to the other side of the coffee table.
Behind the house, there was a crackling noise, and a flash of light over the water. I could hear someone laughing, far off.
“It’s not the Fourth of July yet, idiots,” Isabel said. “It’s tomorrow .”
I looked up at Mira’s house. Cat Norman was sitting in her window. Mira was on her bed, in her kimono, hands in her lap. Her hair was down and she was barefoot. Just staring.
I wondered if she could see us.
“It’s not that I don’t want Morgan to be happy,” Isabel said, as another set of fireworks went off in the distance. “Because I do. But he doesn’t make her happy.”
“She loves him,” I pointed out.
“She doesn’t know any better.” She finished her beer, depositing it in the six-pack behind her.
Morgan sat down on the couch. She moved the flowers again. “He’s the only one who’s ever told her she was beautiful,” Isabel said. “And she’s afraid she’ll never hear it from anyone else.”
Upstairs, Mira had gotten off the bed and walked toward the window, leaning over Cat Norman.