The Six Rules of Maybe

recipes and advice, and Mr. Martinelli had unclogged our sink and fixed our furnace and repaired our bathroom light switch. They were as close to parents as Mom had, hers being long dead. I saw her watch Mr. Martinelli when he got up on the roof to clean his gutters or when he was on a ladder putting up the Christmas lights. She had always kept a firm eye on him until he was safely down.
    “We’ll write you and tell you all about the plantation,” Mrs. Martinelli said.
    “You better do that,” I said. I felt choked up suddenly. It was the way she grasped her purse tightly. It was how his hair was combed so straightly across his head and how he smelled of cologne. The vulnerability of that made my throat close. It was the thought of them out in the big, big world, flying across continents, and the disappointment and heartache that would surely await them. That, and the fact that I rather loved Mr. and Mrs. Martinelli.
    “Come and see us! We’ll send you the address when we get settled!” Mr. Martinelli said. He slapped the hood of Rob’s Taxi, the same as he used to slap the Pleasure Way, which now was also owned by the people who had bought the house, the motorcyclist and his partner, Jayne, who sold her homemade jam at the Sunday market. I took the Martinellis’ picture, standing close together with their arms around the other’s waist.
    Jeffrey and Jacob played with a half-pumped basketball in the street. One would toss it and it would fall with a splat at the other’s feet, causing them both to break into laughter.
    “ Pfffl ,” Jacob said, making a farting noise with his mouth.
    “ Pfllll ,” Jeffrey said, making a farting noise with his.
    We hugged good-bye. I gave Mrs. Martinelli a kiss on her soft old cheek. Mr. Martinelli gave me a firm, hearty hug.
    “Take care of the old neighborhood,” he said to me.
    “Take care of each other,” I said.
    The glass had been replaced in my window again, but I heard the sound through the screen as loudly as if the glass weren’t there at all. My mind must have been waiting for it, even in sleep. I looked at the clock—1:30 a.m. Hayden, and those matches.
    I looked at him through my blinds, his solitary figure leaning against his truck door in the streetlight. The trees were whooshing around as if we might see a storm after days of dry heat. Purple clouds were inching across the sky. The air smelled as if it were thickening with rain.
    The shame of that kiss kept me right where I was, behind the wall we’d built. Maybe he needed to be alone anyway.
    I watched him for a moment as the wind picked up. It loosened some small leaves from the Martinellis’ tree, leaves that spun and tossed in the air, most landing on the ground, but one landing unnoticed in Hayden’s hair. It was cheery and sad and hopeful sitting there on his head, waiting to be seen and yet not being seen. The thing was, no matter what, I loved Hayden.
    I tossed on my sweatshirt. I stepped carefully and quietly down the path to where he stood.
    “The midnight hour,” he said to me.
    “Yeah,” I said. “A leaf …” I took it from his hair and handed it to him and he looked at it as if I’d given him something important.
    “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I’ve missed my friend Scarlet.”
    I thought I could cry. I leaned my own back against the truck beside him. I was glad to give him something, a leaf rescue, comfort, looking after—maybe just the presence of another person on a summer night when your heart was broken.
    He blew smoke out upward to the sky. We both looked at the stars which were out and then gone as a cloud moved past.
    I heard the flapping of the black plastic that covered the hole of the Saint Georges’ garage. I heard Clive Weaver’s television, keeping time with the flickering images behind his living room curtain. And then I heard something else. I thought I heard something else.
    Hayden stood straight.
    “Did you hear that too?” I said.
    He nodded.
    I didn’t want my heart to soar. I knew what would happen if we were wrong. It had been five days. We all knew what the likelihood was as each day passed, even though no one spoke it.
    “Zeus?” Hayden called.
    We listened. I strained my ears to hear again, please hear, please , what I thought I had. The jingling of tags.
    “Zeus! Come here, boy!” Hayden was looking around, and so was I. Corky might have gotten loose. Clive Weaver might have left his back door open.
    “Zeus!” Hayden cried. We