By the time Dean had finished his meal, the traffic had thinned out, making the balance of the trip northward much more pleasant. The late spring sun had finally fought its way out of the white haze and was slipping down in the west, painting the countryside in yellow brush strokes. An unusual number of people were enjoying the unseasonable weather, spending the last few hours out of doors; fathers playing catch with sons, youngsters riding trikes or skipping rope, and others content to just drink in the springtime evening. While Dean's mood had slowly improved, he still envied their contentment. Punching the buttons on his car radio, he finally found music that didn't assault his senses and pushed ahead toward Parkside, ready to call it a day.
It was dark by the time Dean reached the town and maneuvered his way through the familiar streets to 422 Collingswood Avenue. The downstairs lights were on, giving the house a welcoming glow. The two-story home had been built in the depression years and although there was little land around it, it was comfortable, well constructed and had answered Dean's limited needs-at least "temporarily"-for the past 15 years.
Dean's mother had raised her only son alone after her husband's death, relying on life insurance proceeds and a series of part-time jobs. During those years no man had shared her life, but just before Dean was released from the Army, he received surprising word of his mother's second marriage. Two days after landing in the United States, Dean received a phone call from Fred O'Connor, the stepfather he'd yet to meet, informing him his mother was gravely ill. Dean rushed to the Philadelphia hospital where three days later a third heart attack claimed the woman's life.
During this trying time, the funeral and the days that followed, Dean stayed with Fred O'Connor in the Collingswood Avenue house Fred and Dean's mother had rented after their marriage. A few weeks later Dean was discharged from the service and he gravitated back to Parkside and, temporarily he thought, to Collingswood Avenue. Fifteen years later he was still there.
Fred O'Connor, at 74, had long since finished his working career, a calico collection of jobs which changed with the telling, none of which gave him a pension. His small social security check was barely enough to provide spending money and keep him supplied with paperback mysteries, his passion. But it was more than Dean's charity that kept the two together, although at times Dean questioned the relationship as well as his sanity for putting up with the old man.
"How's it going?" the detective asked as he draped his suit jacket on the railing and pulled off his tie before slumping down in the rocker across the room from the old man.