Watching Cars Go By by D.J. Fronimos

Author:D.J. Fronimos [Lakey, D.J. Fronimos and Elke]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMS Books LLC
Published: 2020-10-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 29: Silke

“Silke? Silke! Are you expecting something?”

Silke extracted her upper body from the bowels of the Architect 8200 she was working on, and stepped off the little red plastic stool she used in order to have more reach.

“Miss Williams? I have a package for you, ma’am.” The courier handed her a small rectangular cardboard box.

“Thanks. Where is this from again?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. When I went to pick up downtown, it was already sitting there with the rest of the stuff.”

“Do I have to sign for it?”

“No, you’re all good.” Eager to get to his next stop, he rolled his cart past her and disappeared into the hallway.

Weird. Normally, Abbott FedExed everything. And the box didn’t have the Abbott logo on it either. Yet it clearly had her name, albeit handwritten, on the label. Silke shrugged and ripped the label and tape that sealed the box. Hey, what was that? Her mouth curled into a smile when she recognized the screwdriver she had forgotten at her last job. Attached to it was a folded note:

Thought you might need this. Dinner at my sister’s house? Friday night, 7 P.M.

* * * *

And now here she was, again following the instructions from Google Maps. Four lanes became two, then one, and when the impersonal female voice told her to turn left, Silke grimaced at her phone in disbelief. ‘Left’ was nothing more than a dirt road, and there was random garbage strewn across the front yards. Old tires, and cars without any sitting on cement blocks. Assorted kids’ toys, ugly plastic kiddie pools, sandboxes and slides, as well as scooters and tricycles, all in sad shape. Even furniture, and not the outdoor kind either. Silke spied an old stove, a couple of upholstered dining room chairs, and a couch with one of its cushions on the ground in front of it, the fabric torn and the stuffing spilling out. Dogs barked at her car from every yard, some from chains staked into the ground, some running along fences that looked like the owner had used every piece of wood or scrap metal available, strung together with wire. Yet, there were kids running around in those yards, men stood around barbecue grills, and women sat in lounge chairs staring at her as she passed by—431, 450, 474, 49-something (the number had peeled off), 502, 517.

“You have arrived at your destination.”

Unlike a lot of the properties she had passed, this one had a fence, and what seemed to be a swinging metal gate fastened to a wooden post by means of a chain. The fence ran almost up to the road. There was no sidewalk and no curb or anything else that appeared designated for parking.

“Hi!” A small boy had climbed the gate and was waving at her enthusiastically. “Are you the foreigner lady who’s coming to eat with us?”

“Em, yes, that’s me I suppose.”

“Shoo, Gringo, shoo!” The boy clapped his hands at a milky white goat that attempted to escape the yard as soon he opened the gate for Silke.

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