T H E B L O C K B U S T E R S /The neighborhood seemed ready to explode/fiction by Eva Evans
w wM wm hat’s for dinner?” Tom Mitchell called as he flung open the front door of his home. He kissed his wife, Mollie, then sank into a chair and picked up the paper. “ I noticed lights on in the old Gordon place,” he said. “ Our new neighbors must have arrived. Get a glimpse of ’em?” Mollie looked back from the kitchen door. “Yes,” she said indig nantly, “ and, Tom, they’re colored. A colored family in our block! Why did the Gordons do a thing like that to us?” Tom laid down his paper. “ Can’t say the Gordons did anything to us,” he protested. “ They wanted to sell and they found a buyer. Give the family a chance. They may be pleasant people.” Choking hack the words she wanted to speak, Mollie pinned back a brown curl and went on setting the table for dinner. “ You c a n ’ t a r gue w i t h Tom,” she thought. “He just gets more stub born and more silent. And there’s no satisfaction in that. I’m not going to say another word about the neighbors.” But just then Tommy Jr. burst into the room. He slammed the door and shouted, “Hey, you know what? They’re here, the new peo ple, I mean. Their name’s Parker. Joe — that’s their boy — Joe and I helped carry chairs in. Joe’s sev en, like me. And you know what else? They’re going to get a new baby pretty soon. Oh, and Joe’s dad couldn’t help them move be cause he’s a truck driver and he goes all over and he’s away on a trip right now.” Having placed all of his conver sational eggs in that one basket, Tommy leaped into a chair at the
table, paused for the blessing and then ate ravenously. Tom glanced across the table at his wife. “ And we waste millions of dollars maintaining an FBI when he’s around,” he said. Mollie smiled, but she couldn’t brush aside the matter so easily. The block as a whole showed no in clination toward brushing the mat ter aside either. At seven the Tinners from across the street stopped in. “ I don’t like it,” said Phil Turner. “ Spoils the neighborhood. . . .” His iron-gray mustache bristled with indignation. The next day Elizabeth Cranston Becker met Mollie in the super market. “ This has always been con sidered a nice neighborhood — a nice old respectable neighborhood,” she said in a low voice. “ But now H e r husband , R. D. Becker, sidled up with the grocery cart and interrupted. “ You’ll see distressing changes,” he predicted. “ Property values will decline. It’s inevitable!” Toward the end of the week when Tom and Mollie were having tea with thé Turners, Tom opened his door to a very welcome visitor. “ Stew Maher!” he exclaimed as he g r e e t ed his brother-in-law warmly. “ Long time no see!” “ Been busy,” said the ruddy faced Irishman. “ Just stopped in to say hello.” He hugged his sister and demanded to see his f a v o r i t e nephew. Noticing the Turners, Stew greeted them with a smile and said, “Oh, I see you’re having a little neighborhood visit here.” “ Rather,” grumped Phil Turner. “ But you caught us on a grim sub ject. I still say,” he cried, his mind still glued to the subject, “why did Gordon have to do this to us? Did
he have to sell his house to the first buyer who came along?” Stew l o o k e d puzzled. “Who moved in, a bass drummer or a trombone player?” “Neither,” growled T u r n e r . “ Gordon sold his house to a . . . a blockbuster. That is what they’re called, isn’t it?” “ A blockbuster?” asked Stew. He got no further. A pajama-clad form rocketed out of a bedroom and leaped on his back. “Uncle Stew!” shrieked Tommy who was supposed to be asleep in bed. “ You haven’t been here for a long time. Hey, what’s a blockbuster?” “ A blockbuster,” said his uncle, “ is a king-sized bomb. It can bust up a whole block, see? Why, when I was in England back in ’43 I saw dozens of them explode. Did I ever tell you about the one that fell into a vacant lot between two apart ment buildings in London?” Nobody had heard about it. “Well,” Stew went on, “ it didn’t explode. Imagine how folks felt, expecting it to go boom any min ute.” “Why didn’t you smash it so it couldn’t go boom?” asked Tommy. “Davy Crockett wouldn’t have been scared.” At that point Connie Turner rose to leave. “We’ve got to get along downtown,” she said, “ or we’ll be late. Mind if I call a cab from here?” “ No need,” said Stew. “ I’ll take you where you want to go. Really just stopped for a minute.” Turning to his nephew he said, “ Young man, I think you’re supposed to be in bed.” “ But,” complained Tommy “ the blockbuster! When are you going to finish the story?”
The King's Business/December 1957
13
Made with FlippingBook flipbook maker