Shakespeares Champion Page 0,34

One of the legacies of my gentle upbringing is that I don't know shit about cars. And since I became ungentle, I have been too busy making a living to learn. I stalked back into my house and called the only mechanic I trusted in Shakespeare.

The phone was picked up to a mind-numbing blast of rap music.

"Cedric?"

"Who you want?"

"Cedric?"

"I'll get him."

"Hello? Who wants Big Cedric?"

"Cedric, this is Lily Bard."

"Lily, what can I do for you this fine cold day?"

"You can come find out what's wrong with my car. It was running smooth this morning. Now it won't start."

"I won't insult you by asking if you got gas in it."

"I'm glad you're not going to insult me."

"Okay, I tell you what. I got this car up on the rack I got to finish with, then I come by. You gonna be there?"

"No, I got a job. I can walk to it. I'll leave the keys in the car."

"Okay, we'll get this problem taken care of."

"Thank you, Cedric."

The phone went down without further ado. I sighed at the thought of the expense of fixing the car - again - on a tight budget like mine, detached the car keys from my ring and put them in the ignition, and started walking to the Winthrops'.

Nothing in Shakespeare is really far away from anything else. But it was a considerable hike to the Winthrops' neighborhood in the northern part of town, especially in the cold.

At least it wasn't raining.

I reminded myself of that frequently. I promised myself something extra good for lunch, maybe a whole peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich with my homemade soup. I deserved another treat, too. Maybe a new pair of boots? Nope, couldn't do that if I had to pay for the car repairs...

Finally, about nine-thirty, I got to the Winthrops', the jewel of the most opulent new neighborhood in Shakespeare. This neighborhood, not coincidentally, was farthest away from the southwestern black area and my own slightly-less-southern patch to the east.

The Winthrop lot was a corner lot. Today I used the kitchen door at the back of the garage, which was a wing on the side of the house opening onto Blanche Street, since I didn't have my oil-spotting car. The front door of the house faced Amanda Street. To compensate for the small trees in front (this was a new subdivision) the landscaper had made the backyard a veritable jungle enclosed by a wooden privacy fence. There were several gates in the privacy fence, always kept carefully locked by the Winthrops so neighborhood children wouldn't trespass for a dip in the pool or a game of hide-and-seek. The Winthrop house backed up to an equally large home that had employed the same landscape planner, so in the greener seasons their block resembled the tropical bird enclosure at a good zoo. There was a narrow alley in between the back gates of the two houses. It ran the length of the block and allowed passage for the Shakespeare garbage trucks and the lawn service that maintained almost every lawn in the neighborhood.

I stepped into the Winthrop kitchen, for once feeling positively happy to be there. The kitchen was dim and warm, wonderfully warm. For a couple of minutes I stood under a vent, enjoying the rush of heated air, restoring my circulation. I pulled off my old red Lands End squall jacket and hung it on one of the chairs at the round table where the family ate most of their meals. I strolled out of the kitchen, still rubbing my hands together, to the huge family room, stylishly carpeted in hunter green and decorated in taupe, burgundy, and gold. I picked up a couch pillow and fluffed it, replacing it automatically in the correct corner of the couch, which could easily seat four.

Still trying to reach a normal temperature, I stood staring out the sliding glass doors. The backyard looked melancholy in the late autumn, the foliage thinned out and the high fence depressingly obvious. The gray pool cover was spotted with puddles of rainwater. The warm colors of the big room were more pleasant, and I roamed around it picking up odds and ends as I stretched chilled muscles.

The pleasure of being warm made me feel like singing. I'd only rediscovered my voice recently; it was as though for years I'd forgotten I had the ability. At first the memories had wrenched at me - I remembering singing at weddings as a teenager, remembered church solos ... remembered what my life