Jim was the kind of neighbor who never said too much; a hearty wave when he saw you outside, maybe a few polite, friendly words at the mailbox or when you caught him outdoors as he puttered in his well-kept yard, but little more.
The year is 1947, and Jim, oh, he must have been at least 80 years old. Never married but in great health, his back only slightly stooped and his legs bowed.
My wife and I live in newly built suburban home, bought with money from a GI loan. This was to pay me back for the year I had spent tramping through the muddy fields of France and Germany, living with an ever-dwindling group of men, eating off a tin plate, sleeping wherever I fell, and shooting at--and being shot at by--foreigners.
Now here I was with three suits in my closet, a new Chevrolet in the garage, a kid born while I moved through the dark trees of the Ardennes, and young wife I barely knew. It was an adjustment for all concerned.
This spring, though, we had begun to settle in, to make our peace with the long separation we had endured. We had begun to find a rhythm.
The young, tender grass was just taking root, the few trees were just sending out their first, tentative leaves. Yet, for the most part, the defining color was still brown.
The only green at all was a small pond that lay in a natural depression in the middle of the common ground, which our house--and Jim's--backed up to. A ring of trees surrounded it, and its banks wore a mane of cattails and other water weeds that rustled in the wind.
I said the neighborhood was mostly brown, but that was not all true. Jim's yard was the exception. It was a dazzling green jewel amidst the rough. The grass was lush and thick in his yard, flower beds burst with unexpected color, and he had planted trees--real trees, taller than a man as a tree should be--and they provided the only pools of shade to be seen on the entire street.
Jim spent about an hour every morning when the sun was cool watering his plants, pruning, mowing with an ancient push mower, clipping this and clearing that. Then, he disappeared into his house.
It was on a Friday, as I recall. I had just closed a pretty good sale and phoned Sarah to tell her to start the grill. I picked up a couple of expensive steaks and a good bottle of wine, and we were going to celebrate.
I swept into the house, kissed Sarah and little Billie, then took my station out in the backyard to grill our dinner. A few beers before, some wine with dinner, and we were pretty loose.
Sarah and I were still making up for lost time then, and we didn't even try to make it back to our bed. Breathing heavily, we turned off the lights, fumbled with buttons and hooks and belts, and I pulled her to me there on the living room couch.
When I awoke, I was confused for a moment, uncertain of where I was. After a minute during which I didn't move for fear of a bullet, I decided I was home.
I pulled myself from Sarah without waking her, dressed, found my pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. Quietly, I crept outside in my bare feet to smoke.
The night was brilliantly lit by a three-quarter moon low on the horizon. Its muscular light boldly swept away the stars.
Cupping my hands against the evening breeze, I struck a match, lit my cigarette, took a few deep puffs. Exhaling, I saw another star, this one close to the ground and glowing red-orange. A lean shadow sat on the steps of Jim's back door, rolled the star between its fingers.
"Evening," he said amiably in his low gravelly voice as he saw me look over. "Fine night for a few smokes."
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