They reminded Crolley of a photograph he had seen in his high school history class. Two frail, unsmiling, white-haired boys in overalls stood in an Oklahoma dirt field during the Great Depression. Miranda’s sons looked just like those boys. The photo’s caption said the Oklahoma boys’ families had lost all of their land and, like many other migrants, moved to California only to be exploited into unfair labor. Crolley was a farmer’s son and he understood farm life, the tragedy of a failed crop, and he sympathized with those boys in the photograph. Although he had no proof of this, Crolley believed Miranda’s sons were also struggling against something as large and vast as a drought, as economic depression, and he wanted to help them and their mother somehow. Crolley turned off Home Improvement and lugged the TV into the house.
Usually, Crolley wasn’t much for yard work. He felt that growing up on a farm and his grueling job with VDOT entitled him to laziness at home. The interior of his house was a dim, cluttered mess, and his landlord took care of any necessary repairs like torn siding or leaky faucets. Crolley mowed his grass as seldom as possible, usually asking some passing pre-teen to do it for five bucks. But suddenly, for Miranda Shifflett and the prospect of finding a reward in her fleshy arms, Crolley turned into a handyman.
He rolled his push mower from his carport, crossed the street, and started cutting Miranda’s grass. He was halfway done when she set a glass of water on a porch step, waved hello, and retreated inside. Crolley gulped the water down, thinking she might come out and chat a little, but she didn’t. Only when he had finished the lawn did she step out again.
“You sure picked a hot day to play Good Samaritan, didn’t you?” She handed him a Sunkist, and then pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She smiled and inhaled her cigarette at once, so she appeared to be wincing. Crolley ached to taste the menthol on her lips.
The following week, Crolley weeded Miranda’s flowerless flowerbeds, sprayed Weed-B-Gone, and trimmed her sparse shrubs. He power-washed the green mildew from the pink siding, straightened her leaning mailbox, and pulled up the long-dead dogwood sapling in the front yard. Miranda kept him supplied with water and Sunkists, and once, she sent the boys out with a bowl of strawberry ice cream.
“Mama said don’t get no heatstroke for our sake,” said the boy whom Crolley thought might be Josh.
“She says she ain’t trying to take nobody to the hospital today,” added the boy whom Crolley thought might be Dusty. The boys silently watched Crolley eat. When he had finished the ice cream, he thanked them. The boy who might be Dusty asked, “You got tattoos?”
“Nope,” Crolley said.
“Our daddy has tattoos.”
“Come on, Dusty,” Josh said, rolling his eyes and pulling his brother into the house. Crolley was happy he’d guessed right.
The last June day Crolley spent working at Miranda’s house, he cleaned leaves from her gutters. She called him down the ladder and handed him a glass of water.
“We appreciate everything you doing, the boys and I,” she said as he drank. He nodded. She crossed her arms and squinted, her words coming slowly. “I hope you ain’t going out your way for our sake,” she said. “You know, doing all of this for no pay and everything?” She slapped a gnat on her leg. “Cause I can’t pay you.”
“I ain’t asking for pay,” Crolley said. “Just being a neighbor.” His eyes traveled down her thick neck to the freckled collarbone above her tank top.
Miranda frowned and looked at the grass. “You’ve been the best neighbor I’ve ever had.” She exploded into her laugh and slapped his arm as if to say, Thanks, old chum.