Matt knew that there was no right answer to that one. He turned and started toward the door.
Lance said, "Maybe your home inspector will find something. Give you a way to back out."
Matt went inside and finished up with the inspector. There were several issues- some pipe problem, one overloaded breaker- but they were all small. He and Harold finished up, and Matt started for Marsha's house.
He pulled into the tree-lined street where his nephews and sister-in-law- was she still considered a sister-in-law after your brother died? "Ex" certainly didn't sound right- resided. The boys, Paul and Ethan, were on the front lawn rolling in the leaves. Their babysitter, Kyra, was with them. Kyra Walsh was a recent freshman-transfer taking summer classes at William Paterson University. She rented a room above Marsha's garage. Kyra had come highly recommended from someone at Marsha's church, and while Matt had been initially skeptical of the whole idea of a live-in babysitter (nonetheless a college student) it seemed to be working great. Kyra ended up being a pretty terrific kid, a fresh-faced burst of needed sunshine from one of the "I" states in the Midwest, he could never remember which one.
Matt stepped out of the car. Kyra shaded her eyes with one hand and waved with the other. She smiled as only the young can. "Hi, Matt."
"Hey, Kyra."
The boys heard his voice and turned their heads like dogs hearing their owner rummaging for treats. They sprinted at him, calling, "Uncle Matt! Uncle Matt!"
Matt felt a sudden lightness in his chest. A smile played with the corner of his lips as the boys rushed him. Ethan grabbed hold of Matt's right leg. Paul aimed for the midsection.
"McNabb back to pass," Matt said, doing his best Greg Gumbel impression. "Look out! Strahan breaks through the line and has a leg..."
Paul stopped. "I want to be Strahan!" he demanded.
Ethan would have none of that. "No, I want to be Strahan!"
"Hey, you both can be Strahan," Matt said.
The two youngsters squinted at their uncle as if he were the slow kid sitting in the back. "You can't have two Michael Strahans," Paul said.
"Yeah," his brother chimed in.
Then they lowered their shoulders and hit him again. Matt performed a near Pacino-esque performance of a quarterback about to be sacked. He stutter-stepped, he looked desperately for imaginary receivers, he pump-faked a pass with his invisible football, and ultimately he went down in a slow-motion heap.
"Woo-hoo!" The boys stood, high-fived each other, bumped chests. Matt groaned into a sitting position. Kyra was smothering a giggle.
Paul and Ethan were still doing a celebration dance when Marsha appeared at the door. She looked, Matt thought, very nice. She wore a dress and makeup. Her hair had that carefully mussed thing going on. The car keys were already jiggling in her hand.
When Bernie died, Matt and Marsha had both been so devastated, so desperate, that they tried to knit something together where Matt could maybe take over as husband and father.
It was a disaster.
Matt and Marsha had waited a proper amount of time- six months- and then one night, without discussing it but knowing what was about to happen, they both got drunk. Marsha made the first move. She kissed him, kissed him hard, and then she started to sob. That had been the end.
Before "the slip," Matt's family had been strangely blessed or maybe just blessedly naive. Matt had been twenty years old and all four of his grandparents were alive and in good health- two in Miami, two in Scottsdale. Tragedy had visited other families, but the Hunters had been left alone. The slip changed all that. It left them ill prepared for what followed.
Tragedy sort of works this way: Once it snakes its way in, it cuts down all your defenses and allows its brethren easy access to feed. Three of his four grandparents died during Matt's stint in prison. The burden killed his father and sapped his mother. Mom fled to Florida. Their sister ran west to Seattle. Bernie had the aneurysm.
Just like that, they were all gone.
Matt stood up. He waved to Marsha. She waved back. Kyra said, "Is it okay if I go?"
Marsha nodded. "Thanks, Kyra."
"No problem." Kyra slipped on the backpack. "Bye, Matt."
"Bye, kiddo."
Matt's cell phone rang. The caller ID told him it was Cingle Shaker. He signaled to Marsha that he needed to take it. She gestured for him to go ahead. Matt moved toward the curb and picked it up.