I backed out of the shadow of the porch, my boots crunching soft on the gray gravel of Clara’s driveway. The air tasted of coal smoke from a neighbor’s chimney, a bitter Indiana autumn settling over the small roofs of Maple Street.
I did not look back at the kitchen window where the two women were sitting. My fingers felt numb inside my jacket pockets, my skin still carrying the floral scent of the green paper wrapping from the flower shop.
I dropped the bundle of white lilies near the front tire of my Buick. One of the green stems snapped with a quiet pop against the gravel, the white petals dusting the dirt like spilled flour.
I got into the driver’s seat and pulled the door closed. The latch clicked twice, but the rusty bottom edge of the door stayed slightly ajar, letting in the cold draft.
