Martha Higgens
And the Dead...
And the Dead...
Martha Higgens woke up everyday at 7AM. No need for a rooster or those new-fangled alarms, which were just a bunch of racket if you asked her. No, Martha Higgens woke up everyday at 7AM sharp of her own accord, donned her long satin robe, scooted her feet into matching slippers, and headed down into the kitchen to make some tea. At 7:30 sharp, she would clean the tea set, tidy the kitchen, and then walk her dog Sherwood who stood no more than a foot tall. He was a Pembroke Welsh Corgi rescued years ago from the local no-kill animal shelter two blocks down. Last year, Sherwood died. It had all started to go to hell and he’d gotten out. They ate him. Many had said that they didn’t know how Martha would get on without her Sherwood. And sure enough, she couldn’t. So Martha Higgens got along in her life with her faithful companion Sherwood, it just so happened that he wasn’t there. Martha walked the same path every day stopping at the same light pole where Sherwood used to DO. Exactly five minutes would pass and she would walk back to her townhouse making sure to wipe her feet and remove her shoes. Martha Higgens lived not by custom but by what she was accustomed to.
The rest of the world had gone all awry and it so inconvenienced Martha but she did her best to carry on as normal, keeping to herself except when it was unavoidable.
One sunny morning, down in the kitchen at 7:15, the water had begun to boil, so Martha opened the cupboard to grab a cup and a little bag of raspberry tea, the only proper morning tea if you asked her. Earl Gray? Rubbish. However, today, she found the raspberry tea was out. An unforgivable oversight on her part, Martha fussed about, settling on a cup of Chamomile, even though that was her night tea. She’d have to go to the market after her walk and pick up some morning tea. Shameful that she had let her stock of tea get so low. What would Sherwood have thought if he could see her now?
At 7:30, she cleaned her tea set, still displeased with the lingering taste of Chamomile, and tidied up the kitchen. After dressing in a pair of khaki slacks, a brown belt with matching socks, a conservative but feminine blouse, and a sensible pair of taupe loafers, Martha Higgens went down into the living room, grabbed Sherwood’s leash off of the hook by the door, and set out. While she walked she compiled a small list in her head of other things to pick up while she was at the store. Her mind elsewhere, she didn’t notice They had accumulated slowly and were trailing her. Even if she had, polite inattentiveness was a common courtesy. Anybody not raised in a barn would know that. At the light pole she stopped and looked around avoiding looking at the place where Sherwood would have needed privacy had he still been alive. You do something for so many years and it gets to be a hard habit to break. Martha however had no intention of breaking from her routines or customs.
The moaning and groaning drew closer not so much alerting her but more annoying her, for she couldn’t hear any of the usual sounds over their incessant labored breathing. Then of course there was the stench. She couldn’t understand why they didn’t just wash, behind the ears at the very least. No matter, she stood without a watch, waiting out the five normal minutes but the hoodlums continued to be a bother. They clearly had the intention to invade her personal space like the uneducated heathens they were, or had become. Catching sight of Tommy Cuddleston’s newly decrepit face, that same Tommy who lived down the street and would throw rocks at Sherwood, she decided that yes, they had always been uneducated heathens. This would not do. With a sigh Martha abandoned the pole, shifting herself a quarter of a yard left. Tommy stumbled to the ground in a half-lively lunge. He’d lost his balance and Martha, who was far too old for this type of thing, rolled her eyes and huffed off, satisfied that the time Sherwood would have needed had passed. She weaved through the crowd. Weaving was not something she was entirely fond of, but the incessant grabbing, attempted bites, and hungered attacks were rather inopportune. So Martha did what she must. She weaved. What a bother.
Back at home where things were blissfully in proper place, Martha straightened Sherwood’s leash on its hook and moved into the office where she wrote down her list so as not to forget anything important. Another day of sleepy-time tea in the morning would be imprudent of her. She had hope that there would be something more interesting in stock when she got to the shop.
Liverley and Son’s Corner Market had been on 2nd street since Martha Higgens was in grade school, probably longer. Sure, larger super markets had set up shop further in town but Liverley’s was her store and there was the comfort of knowing she could avoid the nonsense of a packed market. Not to mention, she had no intention of getting a car. Those things could kill you. The walk to Liverley’s was normal enough but when she arrived, there were rather more customers than she would have liked. A stray buggy on the sidewalk out front needed minding so she chose it and strolled into the shop. Most of the produce had gone bad sitting on the shelves. Service had gone way down, new management she supposed. The tea shelves were still mostly full though and there was plenty of dried prunes. Tea first. She plucked a box of raspberry tea and set it gently into the cart. Lemon tea too, she thought, why not. Afterall, they were on sale, had been for the last couple of months.
“Excuse me.” said Martha Higgens as she reached around someone to grab a bag of dried prunes. Beans were next for soupbeans. She had some onions ready in the garden and was excited to use them. The stranger growled at her. Rudest thing she had heard in a long time. Confrontation is far more rude though, and so she offered a simple, “bless your heart,” before moving on to the beans.
With the cash register shut down, she calculated it herself and pulled five dollars and thirty-two cents out of her coin purse. She set the exact change on the counter and said thank you diligently. She bagged her items and pushed the buggy neatly back into the stall they lived in. You know, she thought, if things around Liverley’s didn’t improve, she just might be forced to come down and clean things up herself. If you want things done right, she always said.
The day had been long and full of the inconsiderate people that now populated her once pleasant neighborhood. There had even been some faces she didn’t recognize. At least she knew the locals, although those same locals had begun consorting with the riff raff pouring into their neighborhood. Shameful, really. The teapot whistled on the stove just as she got the fireplace starting to flame. With the sun setting behind her and a cup of hot chamomile tea, had at the appropriate time, she snuggled under a blanket on her couch watching the fire and petting the blanket next to her, right where Sherwood would have been laying had he not been dead.
Martha Higgens sat at her kitchen table by the front window doing crossword #145 in her book of 150 puzzles. It was Wednesday of course. When else ought a person be doing a crossword to completion without the aid of a dictionary or even a solitary peek at the answer key. Not that any day was suitable to be stealing peaks or relying on Mister Webster to do the work. But particularly Wednesday was suited for a good crossword at the very least. Starts with an S, joyful or blissful; heavenly. Martha’s black pen moved easily down the squares. Seraphic. As the word flowed out of her pen as easily as it had her mind, Mr. McCreed stumbled into her yard. It was a real shame. Mister McCreed had the loveliest smile before he lost his bottom jaw.
He was young for head the neighborhood watch but that didn’t stop a sense of security washing over Martha everytime he gave her a reassuring smile. He had been far more effective than the previous head of the watch who had done absolutely nothing about the rapscallions parading down the street on skateboards at the indecent hour of 9PM. People were not meant to be awake later than 8PM at most, let alone rolling around on wood. Martha tensed at the memory of many a ravaged carnation replanted in the wake of their destruction. But Mister McCreed. He had kept watch all night for a week straight, ringing the neighborhood’s corner Watch Bell whenever he saw one of the little curfew breakers. Because of his efforts a few of the ingrates were even escorted home by the police! That did the trick. Yes, he may even have been remembered as poor Mister McCreed in light of his lost jaw and lost sensibilities if he wasn’t himself flattening her front yard landscape while trying to shove an entire pidgeon down his exposed gullet. Such indecency! The birds may have been rats with wings but that didn’t excuse his behavior.
Martha wondered if there was anything to watch for these days aside from the neighbors themselves. Mister McCreed’s head snapped to, dully--the closest he could get to alert. Pidgeon jammed halfway into his pharynx, he gave up his avian struggles and lumbered hungrily out of sight. Curious. Martha went to the front door and gave a warning choo to the absent Sherwood so he wouldn’t set off on a chase. She slipped through the door, mindful of Sherwood, and onto her porch.
There was a stranger across the street that Mister McCreed had decided to pursue. And a rough looking stranger at that. The man had ratted blond hair hanging down past his shoulder blades, and an unkempt beard to match. It was probably blond anyway, or would have been with a shower. Torn jeans and the sweatiest tank top Martha had ever seen finished the strikingly unpleasant ensemble. Martha appraised. Hmph. He was probably into cell phones and rock n’ roll, this one. As Martha tabulated the space between polite and off-put, Mister McCreed was upon the stranger, lunge in motion, top and only jaw jutting out.
The stranger punched Mister McCreed in the face. Punched him in the face! As Mr. McCreed’s form went sprawling backwards into the streets, the man spat on him and used language so dirty that Martha was actually losing her temper. Why she never! Martha went back into her house to change into her loafers. She’d march over, and give this man the upbraiding his mother should have given him. As she stepped outside to deliver her matronly wrath, she saw him breaking the window of the townhouse across the way. Where in the blazes were the authorities! He was ransacking. Ransacking.
Martha was appalled, but also made a mental note to fill in number twelve down--a hurried pillaging.
Mister McCreed struggled to regain his balance. Not in her neighborhood.
Martha Higgens marched across her lawn, past Mister McCreed, and grabbed the townhouse’s hidden key from under a planter. Martha had watched the Dodson’s--and proper owners of the townhouse--dog once or twice before they started hanging out with the riffraff. The pup and Sherwood had gotten along famously. Key in hand she unlocked the door, walked to the kitchen where she could hear pots and pans being pulled out of cupboards, and found the deviant in the act. Ransacking!
“Excuse me!” Martha Higgens fixed him with a proper hard stare.
The ragged man jumped and hit his head on the cupboard door in his astonishment. “Well damn. I didn’t think anyone was still alive out here. Haven’t seen another survivor in a good week or two. Look, is this your dive? I can hit up the next place if it is.”
“This is most certainly not my house. It belongs to the Dodson’s. And I’ll beg you to stop mucking about or else I will be forced to call the authorities.” A silent part of her was offended by the insinuation that this disheveled home could possibly be hers.
The man stood up in full, vacant expression fluttering across his face. An explosive burst of laughter erupted from his lips sprinkling spittle on Martha’s face, “Authorities? Gone mad then have we? You old coot. Look, I’ll make this easy. Don’t make trouble, and I won’t have to hurt you. Now scram, grandma.”
Martha Higgens was not in a tizzy, and taken aback would imply too great a loss of composure. Martha, woman of posture that she was, had always lived a self-contained and what could only be described as tidy life. She had always believed that keeping to one’s self was the proper way to go about things, and that others would generally appreciate the sentiment and do the same. Even with the world careening into such disarray--but really, what with all the baggy pants, indecent music, and microwave ovens who hadn’t seen it coming--her philosophy had still served her well. However, desperate times called for calculated measures. Martha walked away from the degenerate, passed Mister McCreed, and headed to the street corner. To the Neighborhood Watch Bell.
It hadn’t been rung since Mister McCreed caught those hooligans, but she knew it was time. Martha grabbed the tassel and waved out two loud, resounding tolls. The thick echoes bounced across the vacant neighborhood and shook the cores of every living and inanimate thing within three blocks.
The heathen came out of the adjacent townhouse to inspect the sound, “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing!?”
Martha stood, unmoved. “Calling the watch.”
“You damn batty broad. THE WORLD IS OVER. There is no Neighborhood Watch. There is NO NEIGHBORHOOD.”
As his rant escalated, they creeped in. From around corners, out of doorless doorways, they seeped out of invisible seams and saturated the air with low groans and huffs.
Martha stood stalk still, not breaking eye contact with this law breaker, who had let loose a string of slurs so pungent Martha’s nose involuntarily crinkled.
The Watch, the neighbors, all of the unfavorable strangers who had made their way into Martha’s town lumbered forward, passing Martha and trying to engulf the stranger.
He looked through the approaching wave of decaying bodies, eyes bulging, “Why would you…? Why aren’t they…? WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU!?”
Martha said nothing. Eyebrow cocked. All stern disapproval.
As the slow mass groaned closer, the man grabbed what rations he had secured. As he made a quick feint to the right to avoid Mr. McCreed’s upper-jaw offensive, he called to Martha, “Keep your bloody crazy town, then!” He fled.
With the general populace in pursuit, Martha slipped out of the chaos and into her home to watch the waning silhouette of her hunched neighbors sink into the black of night. And to make some tea. It was well into ten minutes past tea time.
Martha Higgens settled her tea tray on the coffee table in front of the couch and went back for her book of puzzles. 12 down: ransacking. Ah! And that led to 35 across. Water water everywhere, but not a drop to drink; a popular indie song. Song reference withstanding, why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? Ironic. Sipping her chamomile, she allowed herself the reward of lounging into the pillows. Absently, she pet the blanket next to her where Sherwood would have lain, and cooed soothing nothings to the vacancy that was her companion. Yes, Mr. McCreed and the others clearly had lost their sensibilities, but maybe they weren’t completely lost to indecency. Martha smiled to herself. Thank goodness for the civic duty of the neighborhood watch.
Martha Higgens woke up knowing the day would be gray. That’s not to say that the weather was overcast--which it was. Or that she would be indulging in some Earl Gray--which she would never, apocalypse notwithstanding. No, Martha woke up and knew that she would be having one of those days. While other people got the blues and moped about sullenly, quite over dramatic really, Martha had gray days and would simply stay in and go about her business without bothering the rest of the world. These were the once in a blue moon days that Sherwood would be let out the back door for his five minutes.
Now, don’t be misled into thinking that she would stoop so low as to be unproductive. Gray days were bothersome, yes, but that didn’t mean that Martha was going to waste any bit of her precious time. One could traverse introspection curled up on the couch wasting away in front of one of those gaudy TVs--doldrum in her opinion--just as easily as scrubbing the floors, or as today would have it, washing the windows.
On such days, while she cheered herself up with scrubbing, Sherwood would nestle into his good old fashioned wool blanket, and watch Martha from afar--bless his little heart. Despite Sherwood’s permanent absence, Martha would still hand wash his blanket once a week, and hang it to dry. Of course every washing came with a treat on top of the blanket. A shame she’d had to compost the uneaten treats for half a year now. Well, it was Sherwood’s loss and the garden’s gain. Waste not want not, she always said.
The back window had just gone through its final sweep for streaks when out of the gloom Martha Higgens saw a bunny in the garden. Normally this would be unacceptable, but today was not normal and so a twinge hit Martha’s heart. The meddlesome bunny, there to eat her veggies, reminded her of Sherwood. Same fluffy rust color. Real. There. Martha Higgens turned to the couch where Sherwood’s wool blanket sat, too neatly folded and not smelling of dog. His treat was there, sitting on top, waiting for the corgi, but he wasn’t going to come, she knew. This was not a revelation for Martha Higgens. She was under no illusion that he was in the house with her but he was her companion and she had no interest in changing routine just because the world had toppled over backwards. Time for tea.
The window in the kitchen sparkled, showing her the neighborhood, once so full of life, clear as glass. She had wallowed long enough. Martha higgens took a last sip of tea, cleaned the kitchen and went out into the garden shed. The place needed a good reorganizing and possibly required dusting but otherwise it was relatively easy to find what she was looking for. In the far back left corner just under the shelf sat a trap cage. The took the trap into the kitchen for cleaning and to put some lovely rabbit-enticing veggies inside. When she was finished, she situated the cage near the bushes where she had last seen the bunny.
A watched pot never boils, so Martha Higgens went to work scrubbing the crevices of the bathroom window. While she worked the toothbrush she thought about the bunny’s fur and the sorrow of losing her dear Sherwood. When he was just a puppy, she had to teach him not to dig up the soil by those same bushes. The cute little look of apology warmed her heart. The sun shined in through the pristine window and the day was a little less grey.
Martha Higgens took a deep breath and let the memory of Sherwood soothe her dulled emotions. If you could call them that. Emotions were not something Martha subscribed to. Too messy and disorganized. Altogether improper. The moment passed and she got back to cleaning. When the windows were finished, she went out to the garden to check the trap.
There was the bunny, nibbling adorably on the fresh veggies inside. Thankfully the humane trap had left it unharmed as intended. Martha brought the cage inside and set it on the counter. Martha was ready for some change. She chirped at the bunny. Little sing-song chastising for its garden raiding. Large black eyes reflected her face.
Where would she put it? Outside was not an option because the heathens would come to the smell, but inside? No, that would be so messy and again there was the smell. While she thought about where to put the rabbit Martha reached down in through the trapdoor and snagged scruff of its neck to transfer it from the cage to the sink. One thing was certain, it needed a washing. It squirmed and kicked but the bath was soon done and the rabbit went back into the cage where it resumed nibbling on a carrot. Yes, Martha was ready for some change.
Martha went into the kitchen, grabbed the cutting board and a few carrots. She set to chopping them into bite size pieces.
***
Thank heavens for sturdy plumbing, thought Martha, while taking a bite of rabbit stew. It’s one of the reasons she had moved into the townhouse--reliable infrastructure. If not for that, this mad world would surely have swallowed her up by now as well. Martha bit into a piece of the tough but well seasoned meat. She had planned to have some roast veggies tonight, and while variation was by no means a habit she planned to be forming, her time in the countryside had taught her to waste not want not. And perhaps on this particular occasion she was a hint of thankful for the small dietary change. Martha regarded her next bite of stew thoughtfully. She could even fasten the tiny pelt into a new Sherwood toy. There really was no sense in allowing that fool pest to eat her out of house and home. She stroked the blanket next to her.
The foot of Martha’s bed was cold. It had been so delightfully warm when Sherwood was around, and would curl up there for the entirety of the night. While most people would have lain there, staring into the blades of the motionless ceiling fan, feeling the madness of the world crushing their husk of a human body into a remnant of despair, Martha Higgens did not. Instead, she gave herself a tenth of a second to feel a tad shred of pessimism before reminding herself that she was far too sensible for such brooding nonsense. Rising from her bed she stretched out her arms lavishly. Thursday. That meant an extra special walk to the dog park so Sherwood could run around and stretch his little bitty legs. But first, tea.
Down in the kitchen there was one slice of cake remaining from her baking day on Monday. No use letting it go to waste. This went nicely with her new lemon tea. She was so delighted with the morning, she even grabbed a tart green apple from the bowl of granny smiths on her table, all of which she grew herself in her award winning garden. Afterall, it was Thursday. Variation was not one of Martha’s customs but occasionally an acceptable one would come along and she accepted the treat with grace and extremely mild excitement, as was proper.
Speaking of proper, she wondered who would judge the 53rd Gardens of Heaven competition this year. She had seen two of the five judges trying to eat a squirrel last week. Such bad form. Mr. Portrock had such a good eye for quality perennials. Granted, the judging council was probably better off without Ms. Mackfield. “A sweeter apple would have been a nice touch. Maybe a red delicious?” Martha sat, an image of absolute composure, remembering the witless comment, and triumphantly looked at her plaques for best fruit garden and best herb garden. Five years running in fact. There was something tart for Ms. Mackfield to chew on. Now Best Vegetable Garden, that had always gone to Mrs. Charleston across the lane, and two town doors to the left despite Martha’s hard work. However, with Mrs. Charleston now living on the streets--a shame really--the award was all but Martha’s. Martha sighed. Winning by default was no fun. Martha was a woman of industry and enjoyed respectable competition. Who was left who could actually put up a good offense, really?
Martha shook herself from such ruminations. It was Thursday after all. No sense in ruining such an occasion as this. On her freshly made bed upstairs, she had laid out the outfit for the day. Lavender always looked nice on her, she thought while eating the cake without dropping a crumb. As the sun light moved across the table, Martha knew it would be an ordinary day. Her favorite kind.
Martha Higgens walked down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, Sherwood’s leash wound in one hand and her other hand resting on the sensible tan handbag that hung on her shoulder. The birds were not singing. Darwinism had seen to that bit, and Martha actually enjoyed this change. Not that bird song particularly annoyed her, but there was no harmony to it as the little twits squawked and shrieked over each other. Perhaps Ms. Mackfield had done the world some good now that she was running about eating the loudest vermin. Martha allowed a small smirk to break through her composure as she rounded the block into the park that housed the gated dog park. Oh bother.
Martha looked ahead at a scraggly teenage boy who was yelling garbled pleas as he stumbled away from a pack of ruffians. There were three bullies, almost upon him. Poor lad, dirty though he was. Martha looked down at the leash in her hands, “Well, someone ought to do something I suppose.” Martha started walking forward, and was that--good lord--Mr. Portrock! No matter. A bully was a bully and Martha Higgens would be allowing none of that in her neighborhood. Perennial expert or not, he was about to get very familiar with her favorite and only handbag. Martha stepped resolutely into the kerfuffle. The scoundrels, including Mr. Portrock, paused in their taunting momentarily and turned towards Martha, one of them drooling uncontrollably from a crooked jaw. Really, if they were going to pay into a healthcare system they should really use it. She fixed them with a hard stare. “SHAME ON YOU,” Martha’s grandmotherly handbag rained down amongst a flurry of finger-wagging and first degree scolding. “YOU OUGHT TO KNOW BETTER.” Dragging the scraggly boy up from the ground by the ear, Martha marched him out of the park and onto the street sidewalk. After a severe dressing down she gave him an appraisal, “Well, I can’t very well send you out and about without a proper meal and a bath can I?” With a yank on Sherwood’s leash Martha turned back towards home. What a dreadful Thursday. One for the books really. Martha would, in fact, detail the entire event in her lightly hydrangea scented journal with the water paint picture on the cover when she got home.
Martha was walking back home a notch above briskly, fussing at a stain now on her lavender shirt and the boy, clearly a little confused but with nothing more resourceful to do, followed. In this fashion, they made it home. As Martha took off her shoes and hung up Sherwood’s leash, she looked back at the boy annoyed. He stood in the doorway, gawking like a dullard. Had he never seen a proper home before? No matter, he clearly had no intention of taking off his shoes and that simply would not do. Clearing her throat, Martha eye-motioned to his dirt-encrusted boots. The boy stared on for a moment, looked down at his boots, and then over at Martha’s loafers, lined up neatly by the door. His mind snapping to and remembering the way things used to be, the boy leaned down and started unlacing his footwear. Martha intoned kindly but direct, “Shoes outside, if you please. The guest bathroom is upstairs, second door on the left. Please use the towels on the counter, not the white ones on the rack. Tea will be ready in the living room in twenty minutes.”
Martha diligently set tea for two, boiled the water. While she waited, she went to work sweeping up the dirt clump trail from the door up the stairs and to the left. It wasn’t as if she didn’t sweep up twice a day regardless, but it needed doing and there was no sense in procrastination. Martha had to reheat the water twice more before the boy came down. He looked a fair bit better. Ah, it appeared that he had washed his clothes in the bath as well and maybe even dried them out on the heater. That would explain the wait. While it was rude to intentionally miss her carefully scheduled tea-time, she was relieved at the prospect of his now-mostly-clean clothes touching her couch, and thought that the lad may be a hair more clever than she initially expected. Very good. Tea time passed in silence, just as Martha liked it. The boy sat, sipping out of the floral-print porcelain cup, looking at the doilies and figurines daintily lining the end tables. As Martha Higgens got up and took his cup, he looked up like he was dreaming and said, “Thank you.” Martha smiled down, pleased with the comment, “You’re very welcome, young man.”
After cleaning the tea set and tidying the kitchen a bit, Martha started setting some water to boil. A nice soup tonight, she thought. The boy wandered into the spotless kitchen, still looking around. Well, idle hands, Martha always said. “Excuse me, can you go grab me a squash from the garden. Just to your left there.” Martha would normally give explicit instructions as to the quality of vegetable to look for, but her squash had always been rather unimpressive, and she doubted there was a proper piece on it to begin with.
The boy was back in short order with a surprisingly nice piece of yellow squash in tow. Holding it out, the boy said nothing but was looking a little less sheepish.
Martha smiled graciously while chopping onions, not a single drop of moisture forming in her practiced eyes, “Thank you very much. If I could only whip my squash into shape I might have a shot at Best Vegetable Garden. Not that it will be much of a problem this year.” Taking the squash, Martha went over to the sink to give it a wash.
The boy looked on like a puppy dog. Finally, clearing his throat he said, “Well, ma’am, maybe when you plant again you could move them out from under the awning. ‘Without full sun your squash is done’ my mum used to say.” He sounded like a good young man which was a relief.
Martha turned her head a little too nonchalantly, “Oh? Was your mom much of a gardener?”
“Yes ma’am.” The long pause carried him over to the table where he sat. “She loved her garden. I used to help her. I thought it was stupid what with having a market nearby and all.” The new pause floated. “But now with the way things are.”
Martha turned around, facing the lad. Well, she thought, maybe the day was looking up. She couldn’t just send him back out to live on the streets and she was looking for a new neighbor of sorts, “A friend of mine has taken to a rather rough lifestyle lately, and her place needs some minding. In particular her garden is quite out of sorts these days. Would you be interesting in looking after the place? I’m sure the landlord would be quite glad for it.”
The boy seemed to almost digest the sentence word for word. No doubt he had been used to a vagabond lifestyle for a while now. Some stability would do him some good. “I could stay there?” The question registered to Martha as a statement.
“Good then, it’s settled. You can stay here tonight and then I’ll show you around the place tomorrow. Now that we’re to be neighbors I suppose an official introduction is due: My name is Martha Higgens and he’s not here at the moment, but my dutiful dog’s name is Sherwood. He’s a Pembroke Welsh Corgi, very loyal. I’ve lived here for forty three years. It’s always been a quiet block and I’ll beg you not to go changing that.”
“My name was--is Boston Williams.”
“Pleased to meet you. How old are you Boston?”
“Seventeen.”
“Just out of school then?”
Boston nodded. “I’ll keep it down,” he said, a little rushed in his reassurances. “You won’t have to worry about anything.”
Martha patted his hand softly on the table and turned around to finish the vegetable soup. Maybe she’d add a bit of the chicken in the freezer. She hadn’t had company in a while, and it was Thursday after all.