8
He takes a walk around the block to clear his head, saying hello to people he hasn’t said hello to in a long time. Weeks, in some cases. Mrs. Melbourne is working in her garden, and when she sees him, she invites him in for a piece of her coffee cake.
“I’ve been worried about you,” she says when they’re settled in the kitchen. She has the bright, inquisitive gaze of a crow with its eye on a freshly squashed chipmunk.
“Getting used to retirement has been hard.” He takes a sip of her coffee. It’s lousy, but plenty hot.
“Some people never get used to it at all,” she says, measuring him with those bright eyes. She wouldn’t be too shabby in IR4, Hodges thinks. “Especially ones who had high-pressure jobs.”
“I was a little at loose ends to start with, but I’m doing better now.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Does that nice Negro boy still work for you?”
“Jerome? Yes.” Hodges smiles, wondering how Jerome would react if he knew someone in the neighborhood thinks of him as that nice Negro boy. Probably he would bare his teeth in a grin and exclaim, I sho is! Jerome and his chos fo hos. Already with his eye on Harvard. Princeton as a fallback.
“He’s slacking off,” she says. “Your lawn’s gotten rather shaggy. More coffee?”
Hodges declines with a smile. Hot can only do so much for bad coffee.