“Remember her as she’d have wanted you to remember,” people had said to him after her funeral. Well-meaning but ultimately stupid advice. Kimmie hadn’t expected him to even be alive to remember her. She’d thought he’d died first.
The coffee burned down his throat when he took another swig. No second cup. Another side effect of getting older.
Not that he should be surprised. He’d spent a lifetime working with his body, and all those years, especially the ones in mining, were bound to have taken their toll. Yet he still had all his fingers and toes. He was able to laugh without coughing. And the only burn marks on his body were the ones he’d gotten being stupid around the stove.
A car started in the driveway next to his kitchen. His neighbor. No, Mina. She’d gone through all the awkward trouble of coming next door and introducing herself to him. He could at least call her by her name in his head while resisting the temptation to turn around and watch her as she drove off.
Maybe she really was a university professor. Teaching... He strained his brain to remember what she’d said. Russian and graphic novels.
Unlike the physical toll that mining took on him, he supposed people didn’t get old prematurely teaching Russian to college students, even in Montana. He didn’t exactly know what a graphic novel was, but he was sure the same applied. Mina Clements would be fresh and young-looking until the day she fell asleep at the ripe old age of ninety-seven and didn’t wake up. And up until that time, she’d be inviting people into her life, whether they wanted to be there or not.
He skimmed the two horoscopes, only barely paying attention to their meaning. Between learning that it was time for him to open himself up to new experiences and that Kimmie should, if she were alive, let go of the past, the question of what a graphic novel was lingered. His mind had seized on the term graphic, wrapping arms around it and forcing him to face all the graphic things he’d been avoiding contemplating with his pint-size neighbor.
But women, even women from big cities, didn’t go around introducing themselves to their neighbor and immediately saying they wrote pornographic novels and to check out their website. Missoula might be a more liberal area of Montana, but this was still Montana, and people would be offended.
Though even the offended would probably do just what Levi was about to do. He folded up the paper and tossed it into the recycling. Then he grabbed his tablet and searched the internet for Mina Clements. One M.
“Huh,” he said to himself as he scrolled down Mina’s page of books. “She writes comic books.” There didn’t seem to be any capes or superpowers, but his friendly neighbor wrote comic books.
Levi sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, looking at the image of a nose dressed in clothing standing in front of a large, ornate building. The drawings were black-and-white, with thick lines and harsh angles. Not funny or light or chatty at all. In fact, there was a darkness to the illustrations that he wouldn’t have believed existed in the friendly woman with a strong, firm handshake and unguarded, bright smile that had him wanting to walk outside and greet the day with open arms.
He could tell she’d felt a little foolish as she’d walked away, though that wasn’t his problem. He hadn’t had anything to say, and he didn’t want to get to know her. He hadn’t invited her over here, didn’t want her young cheer invading the life he’d made for himself. And when he wanted to feel like the world was a brighter place, he’d pick Solstice and her brother, Skylar, up for some soccer drills.
And, honestly, he had thought Mina had been a little foolish for standing on his front stoop babbling a bit.
But the woman who drew these pictures wasn’t foolish. Or silly. The woman who drew these pictures understood black humor and pain and isolation. The woman who drew these pictures was the kind of person he wanted to get to know.
Despite her external chipperness.
And, if he were being completely honest with himself, because he wanted to know how the woman who drew these pictures was the same woman who’d bounced down his stairs.
His chair legs squeaked as he scooted back to look out the window next door. What had previously been a plain, slightly barren lawn with more weeds than grass had now been broken up into flower beds. Mums, mostly. There wasn’t much else one could plant in the fall in Montana that would flower, but Mina had added life and interest to her house.