Mrs. Baker’s House

Mrs. Baker was a widow whose husband had died long enough ago that my brother and I firmly believed he was a figment of a fertile, if delusional imagination.

Her house, two doors up from ours, was a white Cape Cod with a finely manicured lawn, so perfect that children and dogs dare not to step foot upon its velvet grass.

“Come in boys,” said Mrs. Baker.
“Thank you Mrs. Baker,” said my mother. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Mrs. Baker’s house smelled of gingerbread cookies and Ben Gay. It was a time capsule of 1950’s middle class interior design complete with a cabinet television from that era that no longer worked. It now served as a shrine to Mrs. Baker’s only son, Ricky, owner of Ricky Baker’s Auto Action, home of the honest deal. Scooter and I plopped ourselves down on the couch in front of the shrine.

“Do you have my car?” asked Scooter.
“Which one?”
“The Thunderbird.”
“Nope. I have the Nash though.”
“I hate that car.”
“It’s the only I have with me,” I said.
“I forgot mine,” said Scooter.

I reached into my pocket, pulled the Nash, and set it on the edge of the coffee table.

“Lucius Van Dyke!” Mrs. Baker growled. “No toys on the coffee table.”

I glumly removed the little car as Mrs. Baker set the tray of cookies down on the table. This was going to be a long afternoon.