Her Neighborhood

Evelyn stirred the lemon wedge in her iced tea and watched through the window from her wheelchair. The dewy glass left her fingers damp. She wiped them on her dress.

It was hard to superimpose her childhood memories over the neighborhood today. She closed her eyes and pictured Betty skipping rope on the sidewalk across the street.

I went downtown To see Ms. Brown, She gave me a nickel To buy a pickle, The pickle was sour, So I bought a flower. ...

Evelyn opened her eyes, and three teens sat on the steps where Betty had lived. They passed around an amber bottle and catcalled at passerbys. One bent to pick up a chunk of asphalt. He hurled it - hard - at a group huddled on the curb below her window.

His aim was poor: It sailed wide and slammed into the apartment next door.

Janice had lived there once. Every Saturday she’d baked pies. Strawberry, rhubarb, banana, peach, blueberry … In a year of baking she’d never repeat herself. Boys riding by would skid to a halt, overwhelmed by the smell. Kids would huddle around the windowsill where the week’s fare cooled, until she shooed them away.

The boys and girls from the curb had scattered after the near miss, revealing a mangled rat, bloody, pawing a foot at the air. One by one the group reformed. They poked it with sticks.

Muffled shouts came from inside Janice’s apartment. A large woman in sweatpants and a stained bathrobe threw open the door, incensed. “Git out of here you sons of bitches!” she kicked at the kids, who scattered again like pigeons. Across the street, the teens rolled, tears in their eyes. One almost dropped the bottle.  

Police used to walk the blocks on foot patrol. She’d shared lemonade here with Officer Clyde. Parents and grandparents pulled chairs onto the walk to escape the heat. They’d talk over beers. Kids played in the street.

These kids don’t play.

The change wasn't sudden; there was no defining moment. One by one families moved away and new ones came. If you could call them families; Evelyn rarely saw parents.

She closed her eyes again.

It used to be her neighborhood, where the boys shot marbles on a sandy patch beside the building kitty-corner.

Where did it go?

She opened her eyes. The sandy patch was still there, ringed by weeds.

A girl, maybe 10, walked by it with her sister. She plucked a dandelion from the bunch and twirled it a moment. Then she bent over and weaved it through her sister’s hair, just behind the ear.

Evelyn blinked.

“Oh,” she whispered. “There it is.”

---
This week's words for Three Word Wednesday: damp, incensed, skid.