Trail

"Do you want to walk dogs with me?" I asked my son, Chris, over the phone, "They have new halters and leashes and I haven't test driven them yet." The day was cloudy but pleasant, a good day to be outside.

I have two miniature pinschers that are house dogs. Can't really take them anywhere because if they see something, they go after it, and are not coming back until they're good and ready. It's the nature of the breed. They are darlings in the house. Very clean and sweet-natured. Bright and entertaining. I keep them in the yard using electronic "fence."

So, I thought if I took Chris along on the walk, he could help with the chase-and-corner if one of them managed to slip free from her halter.

We chose the Tommy Thompson Trail. This four-mile rails-to-trails paved route goes from about 15th Street past Fidalgo Bay RV Park and used to go over Fidalgo Bay to the edge of the refineries' property. Last year, an arsonist burned a span of the trestle crossing, so you can only go as far as the barricades. A heroic community effort is underway to rebuild the pilings and walkway section. It's the only thing I can remember the community uniting over and getting right to work on. Everything else requires endless hearings, a lawsuit or two, and protesters from all over the state. The paper says it will be finished the middle of next month.









The trail follows the water's edge. It's elevated above rip-rap and tidal flats. Across the bay are Tesoro and Shell refineries, but they are far enough away they don't spoil the scenery. Mount Baker rises behind them, and Hat Island fronts a line of evergreen islands. You can sit on one of the benches placed here and there and watch tankers pull up to the piers, or watch pintail ducks pursue crustaceans. Mostly you can watch people, as this is a very popular trail. Every kind of walker, jogger, biker and canine make up light, but steady traffic on nice days.

There are a few sculptures made by local artists placed along the way. My favorite is a granite river otter in a playful but not too fanciful pose.


There is one condominium project along the trail. It was expensively and inefficiently built, and took years to sell out. I saw the full-occupancy and I noted this to Chris, who made a wry face and said he was sure they'd all find it very nice until one of those cat crackers at the refineries blows. I imagined that. Each lanai has a clear view of the potential disaster. A little like living at the foot of Mount Aetna, I suppose. People do it.

With that cheery thought hanging, we went through the list of family and personal bummers, as moms are wont to do. After we checked them off, I asked him if he was ok with all the material, and he shrugged and said, "It's just news. I'm glad you keep me in the loop."

I was pleased that the dogs stayed tethered to us and were having such a good time they'd given up growling and lunging at the occasional bicycle. They still strained at their leashes and got tangled up at cross-purposes. I said to Chris that they were doing pretty good for the type of dogs they are. He said he thought management could use improvement and winked at me. I told him that they really don't like management.

The dogs like to act tough when they see other dogs. Size differences matter not, and a chihuahua is greeted the same way a pit bull is (why do people seek out and buy pit bulls?). Hackles up, posture rigid, shooting the mouth off. And us owners of these stupid dogs look at each other and apologize. I marvel at Ava, especially. At ten pounds she's afraid of nothing. I remark to the baffled owner of a rottweiler, "She looks even bigger when she's got her fur up, doesn't she?"

We passed through the RV park, which is now owned by the Samish Tribe. I noted that it appeared well-cared for, with the exception of some semi-permanent ratty-looking trailers along the rear edge. What a great place to hide out, I thought to myself.

And then at the beginning of the trestle platform, we saw lots of work in progress. There is a crane and soon to be a pile driver in place. The charred debris has been removed and progress should be made quickly. The portion we could walk on, before the barricades, was pleasantly familiar. Shattered clamshells litter the pavement. Sea gulls dine here, after dropping the live creatures and dashing them to bits.

We stood together at the trail's end for a few minutes, gazing into the water, taking in the views of industry, Highway 20, and nature in 360 degrees. The salt air chilly but clean-feeling, and it's good to breathe in deeply.

We turned our backs to the cyclone fencing and began the return, little dogs now confident of the route, their new harnesses feeling more comfortable... not so much straining.

"Are you up for a beer at the Wheelhouse?" I asked my son.

"Sure," he said, "You buying?"

Of course.

Wasted Youth

Last night was the Anacortes Youth Sports dinner and auction. I think this is worthwhile. The AYS is an excellent organization which has raised enough money to pay for some pretty spectacular sports fields for the kids to enjoy and to help carry them to athletic careers, if that's what they want to do.

Lot of Anacortes business people attend. There are long tables of silent auction items, and it all comes from people you see here. Kinda cool that you bid on goods and service you'd probably buy anyway, and the money goes into the community with little interference. A local volunteer-run organization can do that.

We chatted with people we do business with and parents of kids Ross hangs out with. One couple, perplexed that their second-youngest son has participated in sports from little league baseball to high school varsity football, but is this day in his third week of in-patient drug and alcohol treatment. Yes, we've watched Zach grow up, too. He attended all of Ross' birthday parties from kindergarten on. He hasn't been over to visit in awhile, though, being the number one suspect in the theft of some cash from Ross' room.

Zach's been a mess for awhile, and it's been painful to watch. Stole his dad's car and put it in a ditch two years ago. Ran away from home last year and was gone a few weeks. Skipped so much school that he is a certified drop out now.

The parents: Still married to each other. Active in their church. Owners of a fairly large construction company. Stay at home mom. They have been permissive in parenting style, but I don't think that's what went wrong. The other three children have turned out just fine.

Speaking to Mike and Karen I said I hoped Zach emerged from the treatment healthy again, and that I thought he had good parents. He's a good kid raw-material-wise, I opined, wanting to offer some optimism. Mike doesn't have much hope for him, and Karen looks pained. He's a stupid kid, said Mike. He's going to have to hit some rocks for awhile.

We came home from the event around 10:30. Ross and about ten friends were out on the island enjoying a fire and whatever it is they talk about. He came into the house and asked if he could take the sedan into town. "Dakota's been arrested for having a little weed in his pocket and he needs someone to drive his car home."

Dakota is an A student who is working hard to win college scholarships. But his parents have been split most of his childhood, and his mom is allowing her boyfriend to set rules and limits on him. He resents it. I'm not surprised.

Ross tells me arrests for having a little weed in one's pocket are increasing, and there have even been a few searches at the high school. I tell him I'm glad to hear this because the previous lack of law enforcement has made all this drug stuff look ok. There's way too much of it. Anacortes is worse than towns along I-5. I waited up till Ross got back from town, without Dakota, who was facing a disappointed mom and verbose male companion. Everything looked alright on the island so told the boys I want everyone to go home by 1:00. I went to bed.

Ross woke me up around 12:30, eyes clear and breath clean. "I shouldn't have let Cody bring beer, Mom. I didn't drink any, so I thought it would be alright." I sat upright and turned on the lamp.

"What do you think I should do?" I asked him. Now, I know these kids have partied before. The rule is You Can't Do That Here and I'll Make Sure You Have Food and Pop. All the parents know I expect them to respect that rule. The parents who have bothered to check with me, I mean. I've actually met very few of them.

"Nobody's drunk but Cody," said Ross. I summoned the group off of the island. Thinking fast, I said that everyone should go home now, those who can't drive must not drive, those who can't get home will go to bed now on the living room floor. I'm deciding whether I should call parents based on what's in front of my face in the next ten minutes. After a movement like rats out of an aquaduct, we were left looking at Cody, who had thrown up on the patio and was wiping his face with his sleeve.

Inside the house, I spoke with Ross. Should I call Cody's mom?

"Cody's mom moved to Colorado when Cody said he'd rather live with his dad. She went to be with a man there. Cody's dad just finished chemotherapy for his cancer and they think they got it out of his bones so he'll live another few months. He's stuck in bed for a week or so. And Cody just found out his girlfriend is pregnant. His own mom won't talk to him." Ross looked down at the floor so I wouldn't see tears in his eyes.

I see. There is no one to call. When Ross lifted his eyes I told him that no matter what happened between his dad and me there would be no abandonment. Ever.

When Cody's stomach was finished erupting, Ross made him a bed on a couch.

"Hey, man," I said to Cody this morning, "You've got a lot of bad stuff happening to you. If your dad wants you to hang here once in awhile, you can. But you have to behave yourself."

It's late afternoon and I'm happy to report that Cody kept his breakfast down and is getting hungry for dinner.

I need a nap.

Epilogue, March 30: There have been no more boozy parties. Rules have been observed. Cody was here last night, and this morning told me his girlfriend had miscarried. I asked him how he feels. He said he supposed it was for the best. And we agreed it was also ok to feel sadness. How's he doing? Well, his dad is not going to live much longer, but he graduates with a good GPA in June and he has a decent-paying job lined up. He should be alright.

Epilogue, May 23: Cody's dad lost his battle with cancer. I found this obituary, and it made my heart glad to see that Cody had a very loving father who taught him good things. Cody told me he and his siblings wrote this obitiuary. (cut and paste isn't working, so go to: www.goskagit.com, then to "obituaries" and search John Michael Hernandez)

Cherry Almond

My legs! My legs!

Oh, my goodness, dry skin like I've never had before. Itchy and harsh to the touch. It may have come on gradually, but I noticed it all at once and began worrying. I've never had this condition before. What organ is failing? Where's the malignancy? How long do I have to live?

Out came the notebook computer, and I consulted Dr. Mirkin, Mayo Clinic, Web MD... this could be a thyroid condition maybe. What if my hair starts falling out? Or it could be allergies to my beloved dogs. What if I have to give up my dogs?

Better go talk to a flesh-and-blood physician. And Dr. Pringle takes all the fun out of it. "You're 54 years old. This happens. Buy some lotion. Any ordinary stuff will do. If you turn red, try one without perfume."

At least I get to go shopping. I like Rite Aid. It smells good in there. Candy, cosmetics, magazines make an interesting mix. Almost like Sprouse Ritz from the childhood days, except there is way more light. I found the lotion aisle, almost a city block of choices. Six different labels in the Jergens brand alone. I chose the Original Cherry Almond. An aunt used that one, I think, so it must be good.

After my bath the next morning, I applied as directed. And something happened. A memory.

I was 17 years old. I was dating a guy my parents didn't like very much. He was 20 years old and in the Navy. I met him through my friend, Pam, who was a bit on the loose side. She was finished with him and onto the next one. Tiny and vivacious, with huge brown eyes, Pam could get any guy she wanted, it seemed to me. I would ride along with her and watch her flirt and attract. I felt like I was invisible next to her.

But Troy liked me, and he took me out a few times. He came to my house for dinner and hung around. He was happy to be around my family, and he was one guest who didn't get intimidated by my mother's intoxicated tirades. He'd just shrug his shoulders and say let's go somewhere else now.

He came from Southern California, the San Gabriel Valley, to be specific. He thought of himself as a hippie, complained about the military order (even though he volunteered), and got written up for haircuts once in awhile. Best of all, he was nice-looking, could buy beer, and wanted to be with me. We fell in love, or something like it.

Troy and I were both broken. My family life was hellish with my mother in a sauced borderline personality mode and my father working late. His mother was a barfly and living with her 9th mate (married or unmarried, Troy wasn't sure). She tended to take in the alcoholic and the violent. The boy grew up knowing how many wine bottles could be on the porch before it was necessary to stay at a friend's house, and which neighbor would give him a bowl of cereal on the way to school.

Oh, the sweetness of teenage kisses and cuddling in uncomfortable places. In his 1958 Chevy, in my parents' living room. No real privacy for exploring each other the way young people are so compelled. But what joyful moments we had. I was his and he was mine and we were wrapped in each other. So simple.

But Mom raged on and Dad steered clear and I had graduated high school. Troy got orders for China Lake, California. Leaving me alone with Mom, and no idea of what independence was. That kind of upbringing does not produce a college student or even a convenience store cashier.

Troy had given me his news over the phone. I cried and cried. He said he'd come get me in two hours and we'd spend some time together. I waited by the window as the day became dark, quietly so Mom would forget about monitoring me. Troy pulled up to the curb and motioned for me to come out and get in the car. And we drove away, somewhere. I didn't care, really. I cried, I lamented, and worried, while he drove the car outside of town and past Heart Lake. There he took a trail into the woods and parked.

"Come with me," he said, holding a big flashlight. We were alone. It was quiet and safe here. I stopped crying.

I remember the month was June, and it was a warm night. I remember the big canvas tent, and Troy lighting the Coleman lantern. The canvas was musty and the sleeping bags a bit moldy smelling. And something else.

"When I got this stuff from Ron's house I noticed it was kinda smelly, so I stopped by the head shop and got some essential oil. I sprinkled it around some so you wouldn't notice as much."

Cherry almond.

Unforgettable.

Duo

Here it is Friday already, and I have my work lined up. First I have an excise and hotel tax report for the great Hemorrhagic State of Hawaii (that's for the vacation rental income on the Maui condo), then I have four bank statements for Somerset Apartments so I can wrap 2009 and send the books to the accountant, and I have a box of quarters to count and roll. About $700 worth, they come from the laundry machines. Yes, I could take the box to the bank, but they won't pour them into the coinstar device in front of me. They take the box away to a room and send a deposit slip some day. They don't do that with checks and paper currency, so they're not going to do that with coin as far as I'm concerned.

It's my hard head and it's my time.

Out on the pond I see two Canadian geese. They stop here every year on their migration, but in the past there were three of them. I wrote a sweet little story about that last year:

http://denisehoverson.blogspot.com/2009/04/trio.html

And like I said, this year there are two instead of three. I smile and wonder where the third goose is. I think she must have found a love of her own.

Or bird shot.

That's the best I can do today in the romance department.

Yellow and White

Jake and I arrived at the garden wedding just five minutes late, so we sat down quickly in a couple of the plastic chairs at the back of the lawn. It was a beautiful spring day, just after a rain, everything fresh and bright for the new couple to begin their lives together.

There were about a hundred people there. I knew some of them, and waved my hand at the few who looked our way. I knew Jake and I looked good together. He was so gorgeous in his new suit (and looked even better out of it). I put my arm through his, and squeezed his bicep. He kissed me on the top of my head.

The ceremony began and I aimed my eyes forward.

Yellow and white were the colors the bride chose, the groom and his men wore medium gray. Daisy bouquets with just a dash of emerald green fern and gray-green eucalyptus. Perfect for a such a day in Sonoma, I was thinking. I was half-way listening to the words the pastor said to the young couple and half-way remembering the ceremony Jake and I enjoyed just three years earlier. Almost to the day.

The couple was pronounced man and wife and the guests began to stand up to applaud the union.

A round-ish boy about seven years old suddenly appeared and pushed me over backward. My chair tipped up and my purse flew out of my lap as I fell hard on the lawn. The kid grabbed the bag before it hit the ground and he ran fast behind the lattice fence and hedge, tripping over an azalea bush.

"Stop!" I yelled, as Jake rose to his feet and looked toward the boy with puzzled expression.

I rubbed my elbow and noticed I was bleeding a little bit. There were grass stains on my new dress. I pulled myself up while people stared at us.

"Get him!" I yelled to my husband, who had one foot in the aisle. He took a hesitant step. "Come on!" I said, "He's getting back up!" The boy arose and began to run again. Chubby legs not moving him as fast as they might have on a lighter frame.

Why can't he catch that kid, I wondered. I watched the two of them round the corner of the block, Jake still not even with the boy.

I ran to the car, which was parked at the curb, and started it up. I found Jake and the boy talking to each other not far from where I lost sight of them, with the boy still holding my purse. He was gazing up at my husband, face all red and eyes all teary.

I got out of the car and stood with my hands on my hips between the two of them.

"Who do you belong to?" I demanded of the boy, my face showing anger and disbelief. The boy looked down and did not answer. His fists were clenched and his face was red with rage. I wrenched my purse away from him, glancing inside to see if anything was missing. He tried to kick me. I asked the boy again where he lived. Still no answer.

"Ah, Jenny, he's just a kid. Don't be the heavy. You got your purse back, let's let him go."

"The 'just a kid' assaulted me and took my purse. Get in the car, Jake, and put him in with you. We'll go to the police station and get this sorted out. He can't get away with this. Why shoud he?" Jake took the kid by the arm and steered him into the back seat. As I drove the half mile or so to the station, I glanced into the mirror and saw that Jake was letting the boy play a video game on his i phone. Huh? No time to ask, we'd arrived and I told Jake to hold onto the kid's hand while we entered the building. The boy made a sudden break and ran down the sidewalk and through a hedge.

"Just let him go, Jenny. It's not worth chasing him." He saw the expression on my face and said, "OK, I'll go find him." How's he going to do that? I wondered, but Jake was well-underway in the direction the kid fled, so I went back to the officer to make my statement.

A half-hour went by, and Jake appeared with the boy, who now had the name Danny to identify him. I saw Jake's suit coat open and noticed he wasn't wearing a belt. "You got dressed without a belt this morning?" Jake looked down and smiled, shrugged his shoulders and yawned. "I hate getting dressed up. You know that."

"Do we really need to go through all this, Jenny? Danny is ready to apologize for what he did and I think he's too little to be so tough on." Jake gave me his most charming smile, and yawned again.

He's looking pretty relaxed, I thought to myself.

Jake sat down on a bench. The boy, Danny, sat next to him and glared at me. "How did you find the little criminal?" I asked Jake. Jake told me the kid told him where he lived when they were in the car. So he simply went to the house and got him. "Where is his mother?" I asked. Apparently, she was still at the house. "Well, dontcha think we should involve her?" I was feeling a little incredulous.

"Oh, Jenny. She's a nice woman. She works two jobs and she's all alone with Danny. I told her I'd sort this out for her."

Now this was getting bizzarre.

"Give me her name and address and I'll go deal with her myself." So, I took a slip of paper from the officer with Loralee Shultz's address on it, got in the car and drove the five blocks to her address. Yellow house with white shutters. A short, pretty brunette opened the door the moment I knocked. Her smile faded quickly when she saw me standing there.

In her hand was Jake's belt.

(fiction)

Sun

The Westlake Villas is a pretty fair-sized condominium development in Peoria, Arizona. I've come here to visit my friend, Gail for a long weekend. Adobe colored, almost identical stucco residences, block after block. Rock gardens punctuated with cactus and citrus trees. Graceful streets, immaculate driveways... some people actually paint em and wax em.

This place is where the Cadillacs go when they leave the dealer lots. There is one in every other driveway, I think.

The Arizona sun in late January is brilliant but benign and softly warm. It's on my face as I glide through the water in the clubhouse pool, what passes as a backstroke. Ever so slowly, I am really enjoying this cool tourmaline water, convected air, bright light. It's delightful, stimulating, kinda sexy, even... but oh so soothing. No, I'm in no hurry at all.

I notice two old Jewish men checking me out. I am 54 years old, but still a Shiksa. The unapproved and disallowed and interesting. I smile.

Gail is dog paddling near me and talking non-stop. Talking non-stop is what Gail does. I think she has no inner dialogue. But I can't hear her with the waterline above my ears. And it doesn't seem to matter.

We are the same age. She is way better looking than I am, and she works very hard at it. Scandinavian for sure, she is blonde with blue eyes, slender and beautifully proportioned. She dresses in white and jewel tones, very classic. You cannot tell by looking at her that she is dying.

Gail gets up early. She runs a mile with Bella, the dog, then makes me breakfast. I cannot make my own breakfast. "No, you can't use that bowl because it doesn't fit in the dishwasher. Use this one. And here is the spoon we use for the yogurt. These Asian pears are ready to cut, but these are not. That coffee is too expensive. We only use that one for the first pot, then we use this cheaper stuff later in the morning. You take your shower now and I'll have your breakfast ready when you get out."

We sit on the patio and get caught up on each other's lives. She offers me a cigarette. "These aren't going to get me," she says, "The Hep C is way ahead of them." If she's smoking, I'm smoking. She does not allow a choice, but I'm willing.

I ask her, "How are you, Gail?"

She tells me if she weren't a type A personality she would already be in the ground. "I have to keep moving, and the way I am I like to keep moving," she tells me. "If I don't move, I stiffen up. Something hurts all of the time. I can't think about it. I stay very busy. But sometimes I feel like I have the flu and I have no choice but to be still and keep warm. I hate that most of all."

Gail got the disease through a blood transfusion in 1986. She did not know she was sick for at least fifteen years after that, when the symptoms were practically screaming at her physician. No one knows if earlier treatments would have made her more comfortable now. She does know that she has a highly resistant strain and the chemotherapy she went under for a period of time did not put a dent in it. She relies on some convential medicine, but mostly alternative medicine. The alternative medicine is busy stuff ("I put this on my skin here, then one of these patches, and this goes on my cereal... I drink some of this at noon, and take some of these at bedtime.") But if it makes her feel like she's wielding some kind of weapon at the demon, who would question her practices?

She and her husband have their rituals. An early morning walk, Bible study, an early evening walk before dinner. Clark is out on a golf course for half of each day. That is when Gail should be resting or hobbying. But today we are at the pool soaking up sun and splashing around a bit.

Gail directs Clark with the zeal of George Patton. He follows orders like the best of the general's soldiers. But his eyes shine with deep love for her. Clark is tall and good-looking, he looks very much like the retired executive he is.

Clark is a master at getting a word in edgewise. Gail interrupts him constantly, but he continues speaking in a low but undistracted tone if he wants to get a point across. The listener, if agile of ear, can follow both of them.

"I am so glad we came to Peoria," she says, "I feel so much better here in this weather. The cold and damp of Washington kill me. And all the relatives are still up there. We didn't even come home for Christmas... Clark and I just don't care. No craziness, no dramas... it's just so nice here."

At the end of this day, I pack my suitcase for my evening flight home. Clark will take me to the airport. Gail is on the sofa covered in a blanket. "I can't go with you," she apologizes. I can see pain in her eyes and she is very still. "It's like the flu, like I told you. I'll feel better tomorrow."

"I love you," I say to her. She says, "God bless you."

Clark opens the door for me, and the little dog, Bella, goes to Gail and curls up next to her.

The Old and the Young

I think it was early September of 1997. Beautiful day in Victoria, BC, just below 80 degrees and bright sun. We were trying to hurry down Humbolt Street to Wharf Street where our bus would arrive in ten minutes.

"Not now, Ross," I pleaded with the five year old boy. "Just another three blocks and we'll be at the bus. Then you can sleep." Ross went limp like a sixties civil rights activist and lay in a whining lump on the sidewalk.

I had my backpack on and an overnight bag slung over my shoulder. John was carrying the packages from the Bay Company. I tried raising Ross up with one hand around his resisting arm.

"Ow!" yelled the little boy. "You're hurting me, Mom!" We gained five feet of progress along the sidewalk.

It had been a long day for the kid. John and I hadn't been to Victoria in years, and we probably should have left Ross with his grandparents. But there was the Bug Museum, the taxi boats of the Inner Harbor, Madame Toussaude's Wax Museum that we were sure he'd like, so here he was.

He liked the Bug Museum, but he didn't like the hotel because it didn't have a pool. He didn't like the wax museum because he couldn't touch anything, and the taxi boats weren't running today. I spent way more time in Munro's Bookstore than he thought I should. John was worried we'd miss the bus back to the ferry because I had to run into Murchie's to get a box of Empress Blend tea.

The Empress Blend is black pekoe and darjeeling teas blended the way no one else can do it. The aroma is deep and floral. The taste delicate and earthy. I couldn't leave Victoria without it, and because of me we were in a rush. But who knew when we could return?

The black cardboard box with the gold embossed logo was tucked inside my backpack. That was sitting nicely, but the overnight bag fell over my shoulder, then to the ground as I struggled with the child. Ross jumped to his feet and ran ahead of us to a wooden bench. He lay down on one end of it and announced he wasn't moving.

There was an old, severe looking woman sitting at the other end of the bench. She wore a muted plaid wool coat and scarf on this almost hot day. Her wiry grey hair lay in neat curls under a brown beret.

"I'm tired," Ross said. "You can't make me move."

The old woman spoke.

"You should take a switch to that boy. You'd be doing him a favor. Worst thing you can do to a kid is spoil him."

I turned to get a better look at her. I saw a face that hadn't smiled in a long time.

"No, you shouldn't spoil him. He won't turn out right. I can tell that for myself, nobody ever did nothin for me, and it's a good thing, too. I always made my own way from the time I was a girl. My folks never bothered to fuss, and then my father passed away when I was a teenager. I joined the army at seventeen and worked my way up the ranks as a trained nurse. I put my money away, as much as I could so I could retire to Oak Bay. And now I have a nice house there.

"Nobody did it for me, I done it myself. If Id'a been spoiled I would have nothin today."

Then she fell silent, watching John try to coax Ross off the bench. John gave the boy a juice box from my backpack and said some soothing words to him.

"Do you have any family to enjoy your retirement with?" I asked her.

"No. There was no time for that and I couldn't rely on anyone let alone a man. Never married, and dedicated myself as an army nurse, I did. I have medals.

"Nobody ever gave me anything," she repeated.

I reached into my backpack for the Murchie's Empress Tea.

"This is from me to you," I said. "I hope it's the kind you like. It is my own favorite."

The woman did not reply, but took the tea and quickly got up and walked away. She did not look back at me.

Ross watched the woman for a moment, got off the bench, took John's hand and we walked the last two blocks to the bus for home.