The Bad Boy on Sycamore Lane

I should have been at the beach, sipping frothy fruit drinks with my friends and strolling the boardwalk at night. I could've gotten a killer tan, and maybe the phone number of a hot lifeguard. Or two. 

Instead I was in my Aunt Roxy's back yard, balancing on a rusty ladder picking lemons. My arms were already starting to turn pink from being outside too long without any sunscreen, and I could feel my sweat soaking the bandana that I used to tie up my long, brown hair. I dropped three more lemons into an already overflowing basket before deciding that I'd done enough picking for the day. 

Aunt Roxy was standing over the stove in the kitchen when I walked in with the basket and set in on the turquoise kitchen table. Everything in this house was painted in bright colors so my aunt was constantly reminded to stay positive, even when things were getting rough. 

She was diagnosed with Leukemia at the end of my freshman year of college, so as soon as we heard the news my mother volunteered me up to spend the summer with Roxy and help her out with whatever she needed. Like picking lemons. 

Now, Aunt Roxy had more than enough money to hire a professional to help her, but my mother insisted that she would feel more comfortable with family...so I agreed, wishing I hadn't spent $200 on beach clothing. 

        "How are the trees looking today Eve?" My aunt took a steaming pot off the stove and carried it across the kitchen to the sink. After reading that lemons were supposed to help you live longer in one of her ancient farmer's almanacs, she spent $2,500 on lemon trees and tried to incorporate the fruit into her lifestyle every day. Although I was doubtful of the power of the lemons, I humored her and picked them anyway.   

        "Good. I'll have to water them later tonight though," I responded, collecting an armful of pill bottles and setting them down on the table in front of me. One of my duties was to make sure she took all of her medications at all the right times. The doctors were reassuring, telling us that we caught the disease early and if she took all of these pills they could help extend her life. Or at least what was left of it. 

        "Atta girl! I knew those little yellow gems would grow on you!" She chuckled to herself. And I chuckled too, still amazed by how much faith she had in the fruits. They were her personal Jesus. 

After eating dinner together, I convinced Roxy to come into town with me. Her house was only a 10 minute walk from Main Street, which was lined with cute little book stores, record shops, cafes and boutiques. She was reluctant at first, but I told her we should celebrate my first full week of summer vacation with her. I also promised a cold glass of lemonade. That was all she needed to hear before she grabbed her purse and met me at the front door. 

We had only been out and about for an hour when I could tell Roxy was getting tired. Her pace slowed, her breathing grew heavier, and we decided to call it a night. Even though it was only 8, we left Main Street and headed back for Sycamore Lane.

It was a beautiful street, home to only a handful of old, classic houses. My favorite house was the one directly across the street from Aunt Roxy's. It had been renovated a bunch of times by the family that owned it, the Peters, yet still looked classic with it's large windows and elegant stonework. While I was admiring it I noticed a black motorcycle parked in front of the high, iron gates. Hmm, that wasn't there when we left. 

        "Roxy?" She was a few feet ahead of me, and stopped to look at me once I called out to her. "Do you know who's motorcycle that is?" I motioned to it with my chin. Her eyes widened once she saw it, and she started walking faster than before, popping open the gate in the waist-high white fence that surrounded her property. She didn't slow down until we were both back inside the house.