The 56th Man Read Free Page B

disinfectant. To his thinking, the house smelled like
a hospital ward.
    He went outside to pull the Scion into the
driveway. The police cruiser had stopped along the grassy curb at
the next house. The groundskeeper was leaning on his trimmer as he
spoke to the officers, who remained seated in the car. He was
pointing down the street. When his eyes followed his arm he saw Ari
watching him. He lowered his arm, smiled uncertainly, and nodded.
Ari sensed the policemen watching him in their rearview mirrors and
nodded back at the groundskeeper.
    Getting into the Scion, he pulled up the
driveway, stopping a few feet short of the double garage. Taking
out the set of keys, he guessed which of them would work on the
garage door--the odds were down to fifty-fifty, now that he had
used one on the basement--and again guessed right. He heard the
bolt click, and he turned the lever. As he raised the door he noted
the motor in the garage ceiling. He scouted around for a remote,
but could find none.
    Once he was parked in the bay, he lifted the
car's ash tray out of its slot and took up his suitcase from the
passenger seat, placing both items on the steps leading inside. He
was about to close the bay door when he heard the police cruiser
driving away from the house next door.
    He paused, balancing his needs against his
curiosity. Curiosity won. Necessity too.
    Ari began to make his way through the thick
border of trees, then recalled stories of American hypersensitivity
when it came to property. He backtracked and approached the house
from the road. The groundskeeper had resumed trimming the grass in
the shallow ditch. Seeing Ari, he stopped. A tentative moment
passed before he managed a smile.
    "Hello," said Ari.
    "Hey," said the man, maintaining a firm grip
on the handle of his garden tool.
    "I've just moved into the house next door. I
wanted to introduce myself to the owner here."
    "That's me." The man stiffened proudly. The
sweat on his face and forearms had captured bits of dirt and grass
so fine it look like gunpowder residue. A man in mortal combat
against his yard.
    "Excuse me. I mistook you for the
groundskeeper."
    "That's me, too." Freeing one hand from the
trimmer, he stepped across the ditch. "Howard Nottoway."
    Ari took the extended hand and shook it. "Ari
Ciminon."
    “ Most folks around here call me Howie.”
A half head shorter than Ari, Howie raised a courteous if wary
gaze. Sprigs of white hair sprang out above each ear, imparting a
cockeyed awkwardness that seemed at odds with his status as a lawn
warrior. "I didn't see any moving vans."
    "My furniture will arrive later." Ari
maintained a straight face, a lackadaisical assumption of bland
truth. Absent the cookie-cutter smile, it was the same expression
he had worn in New York, while standing near the PATH station at
Liberty Plaza listening to the names of 9/11 victims being read out
by relatives of the deceased. The somber memorial was marred by
scuffling between anti-war protesters and those who supported the
administration. Ari had played a mental truncheon across the skulls
of the troublemakers. Americans were focused on being the sole
victims of the September attacks, which he found puerile and
unseemly--although Ari was the first to concede the worst hurts
were those closest to home. It was the sense of exclusion that
annoyed him. A bit like 'God Bless America.' Where did that leave
everyone else?
    Anyone taking note of him that day would have
seen a man who looked sublimely untroubled, even a trifle amused at
the noisy fuss the police caused when they broke up the fights.
    An hour later, after making an overseas phone
call, he was in route to Virginia to confront this quintessential
American, taming the wild in goggles and muck boots.
    Howie nodded, though he looked a little
confused. Ari supposed it would have made more sense if the
furniture was in place before the new owner moved in.
    "I was wondering..." A vaguely childish
expression crossed Ari's face. "What is