Free Gone The Next by Ben Rehder

gene.”
    “Oh, go on. I remember them bragging about all their grandchildren. Which one are you?”
    “Roy.”
    “Roy Ballard! That’s what you said a minute ago but I didn’t make the connection. Roy, I’m Emma Webster.”
    I was worried that she might have recognized my name when it appeared in the newspapers way back when, and that she would remember that now, but I didn’t see any indication of it.
    “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Webster.”
    “Please, it’s Emma.”
    “I remember my grandparents mentioning your name, but you seem way too young to have been one of their friends.”
    She ate that up. “Well, they were several years ahead of Tom and me, but that didn’t stop us from forming a friendship. I only wish we’d known them longer. By the time we moved here, well, we only had the pleasure of knowing them for a handful of years.”
    In other words, they died. Why did people avoid stating that simple fact? Everybody dies eventually. Some people die sooner than others. No need to use euphemisms or sugarcoat it.
    “They had a lot of good friends out here,” I said, just to say something, because I was starting to feel a little awkward about having a conversation through my van window. What was the proper etiquette? Was I a host of sorts? Should I offer her a Coke and some potato chips? Also, I was a little worried that the woman in the Jetta might choose this particular moment to leave Pierce’s place, and I’d have to say a quick and possibly rude goodbye to ol’ Emma.
    “This area just isn’t the same anymore,” Emma Webster said. “This used to be out in the country — you know that — but there’s been so much growth, all these new subdivisions, and nobody knows their neighbors like they used to. Like this Pierce boy. Brian Pierce. As I said, I knew his grandparents, Larry and Faye, but they’re gone now. Things change, I guess. I’ve run into Brian a couple of times when I was out on one of my walks — sometimes I catch him when he’s out checking his mail — but he doesn’t have any interest in talking to an old woman. Or maybe talking to anyone. I think he’s a bit of a loner.”
    I nodded toward Pierce’s driveway. “That guy is? Pierce?”
    “He’s young and single, so when he first inherited the place, we were worried there’d be some late-night parties. Lot of distance between our houses, but you’d be surprised how sound carries. Not to mention drunk drivers. Young people don’t always use common sense. But we rarely hear a peep from his direction. Hardly ever see any strange cars coming and going from his driveway. Just his truck, a big white thing.”
    I realized now that Emma Webster didn’t fit the role of a retired principal after all; she was, instead, an enthusiastic neighborhood gossip. Mrs. Kravitz from Bewitched . I was starting to wonder how long she’d go on.
    “Sounds like a recluse to me,” I said.
    “Yes, that’s exactly right. He does have a very nice home, with a large back patio that would be perfect for entertaining, but, well, I guess it’s really none of my business. I just know that when I was his age I was a lot more sociable. My friends and I were always doing something. Always getting together for this or that.”
    “I can imagine.”
    “But I’ve never even seen Brian with another person. Always by himself. I’d get lonely living like that. Although there was the one time I saw Brian with a little girl in his truck.”

16
     
    A couple of years ago, I was having trouble catching one particular fraudster, so I wore a wire into a bar and struck up a conversation with the guy. I posed as a house painter — same profession as him — and we hit it off well. I was drinking ginger ale, pretending it was something stronger, and pretty soon we got around to bitching about our jobs. Damn hard work, wasn’t it? Long hours. Crappy benefits. Dangerous. Fumes that could slowly damage your brain. Sure didn’t want to be doing this when we were