Frank Wheeler leans back in the folding chair propped up inside his garage and lights a cigar. A nimbus of rich tobacco smoke swirls before being whisked away by a late afternoon breeze. Mulberry Avenue is abuzz with end-of-summer activity.
Clusters of neighbors stand in the middle of the street laughing and drinking from glasses brought from their respective homes. From a nearby speaker, James Taylor is singing about Carolina.
In the cul-de-sac, a gaggle of middle school aged boys play pickup roller hockey, their sticks thwacking and clacking. Two young girls with pigtails chase each other through several front yards, waving bubble wands frantically and cackling with an enviable carelessness.
The Mulberry Ave Block Party is a Labor Day ritual, one last hurrah before the return to real life. School. Work. Life’s problems that summer has a way of repressing.
Frank has a lot of problems. His marriage is in shambles. His job as an inspector down at the plant is on the rocks ever since the accident last spring. It wasn’t his fault but that sonofabitch Perry needed a scapegoat.
As for his daughters, Claire and Emily, well let’s just say he doesn’t get to see them as much anymore. A tear rolls down his cheek as he watches the Crawford twins, Timmy and Tony, toss a football at the end of the drive.
The familiar jingle of the Mr. Whippy ice cream truck cuts through his thoughts like a razor blade. The iconic white truck with four blaring speakers affixed to the top is as recognizable as a sparkle of fireflies or a firework pop. Frank watches as the kids flock to the window and excitedly pour over the colorful menu plastered to the side.
“Hey Frank.” It’s Tom Winston from next door. He’s dressed in a dark polo and salmon shorts. He holds up a silver can. “Want a beer?”
Frank shakes his head and takes another puff of his cigar. “I’m okay, thanks Tom.”
“Just taking in the last few hours of summer?”
“Something like that. You?”
He nods and raises his mug. “Yep. Long summer of fun. Back to the grind tomorrow, you know?”
Tom has a place on the cape where he and his model wife, Pauline, and their six straight-A kids spend their summers.
“Yep. Back to the grind.”
“Huge buzzkill if you ask me.” Tom raises his mug and takes a swig. “Anyway, have a great night, Frank.”
Frank nods and raises his cigar. “You too, Tom.”
A fiery red sun caresses the top of the Downing’s house across the street. The music has faded, along with the laughter and thwacking of hockey sticks. Mr. Whippy is long gone, the trashcan on the street corner overflowing with ice cream wrappers. Crickets begin their nightly symphony as Frank takes his last puffs of his cigar before pressing it into the plastic arm of his chair.
He holds up a rectangular remote and points it at the sun’s remains, holding it there for a long minute before pressing the tiny black button in the center.
There’s a click followed by a gentle humming noise as the garage door makes its languid descent.
Closing the door on the day.
Closing the door on summer.