Too Close to Home Read Online Free PDF Page A

even came close,” Derek told me later, as if this constituted a defense.
    They were doing so much thumping up there that the night janitor called the police. They got off with a warning, largely because they hadn’t actually vandalized anything. I was furious when the cops brought him home.
    “Another fucking stunt like this,” I said, “and you can find some other place to live.”
    I regretted it later. I didn’t mean it, that his next fuckup would be his last under our roof. Teenagers, honestly, sometimes they did some stupid shit, but you stood by them no matter what. It was all part of what you’d signed on for.
    If Derek really was sick, I didn’t want to drag him out to push a lawn mower through the heat and humidity. But it occurred to me that it might not be an actual illness he was suffering from.
    “You hungover?” I asked. It was hardly an outrageous question. Only a month ago I’d found a six-pack of Coors hidden under some old storm windows that were leaned up against the back of the shed.
    “No,” he said. Then, abruptly, he threw off the covers, rolled over, and swung out of bed in one swift movement, bumping into his mother. “Fine,” he said. I think Ellen and I were both surprised to see that he was still in jeans and T-shirt. He reached for his work boots, ignoring the sneakers right next to them. “I’ll work. So I’m sick. No big deal.”
    Ellen looked at me expectantly, like she was wanted me to pick up on this, ask him what was the matter. But I just shrugged and said, “Good.”
    “There’s some bacon already made,” his mother said. “Would you like me to make some eggs for—”
    “I’m not hungry,” he said.
    Ellen got up, leaned back, held up her palms in the universal backing-off gesture. “Okay, fine,” she said and walked out of the room.
    “I’ll be out by the truck when you’re ready,” I said, left, and closed his door behind me.
    Ellen was standing there and said, “You think he’s hungover?”
    I shook my head. “I don’t know. If he is, pushing a noisy lawn mower first thing in the morning is exactly what he deserves.”
    I brushed my teeth, took a baby aspirin because Ellen had heard some doctor on
Oprah
say it was a good idea, and went outside. There was hardly any breeze and you could tell it was going to be a scorcher.
    We have a building behind the house, what I call the shed, but it’s really a double garage with one big wide door on it, where I have a workbench and a place to keep all our stuff. I’d picked up half a dozen used lawn mowers for next to nothing and got them in decent running order so that if either of the two we took with us each day crapped out, I had a replacement set to go. Just the one lawn tractor, however, a John Deere, its green paint and yellow striping fading from constant sun exposure. It sat on the short trailer already hitched to the back of my Ford pickup, which has
Cutter’s Lawn Service
and a phone number stenciled on the door, as well as my name, Jim Cutter.
    I did a quick check to see that we had everything we needed. The hedge trimmer and extension cords, four small red plastic containers with plain gasoline for the lawn mowers and the tractor, and a fifth with a mix of gas and oil for the handheld trimmer and the leaf blower, which I hated for the racket it made, like a goddamn jet coming in for a landing, but it was a hell of a lot faster for clearing lawn clippings off driveways and sidewalks than a broom. When you wanted to pack up and move on to the next job, speed was everything. And after I’d already been pushing a mower or wielding the trimmer, the last thing I wanted to do was sweep by hand.
    I glanced into the truck to make sure we each had our work gloves and our earmuff-like gadgets to keep the noise out of our ears. I opened the glove box, checked that I had a replacement spool of filament wire in case the weed whacker ran out.
    Something was missing, though. I was trying to think what it was