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hopefully it did the job.” She picked up her underwear and went to the bathroom and shut the door.

Chic & Diane Waldbeeser & Lijy Waldbeeser

    September 1950–August 1951
    When Chic and Diane returned from Florida, Diane’s parents offered to help with a down payment on a house. The first one they toured was a Cape Cod with a detached garage on Edgewood Street, a dead-end street not far from Middleville’s police station. While Diane and her parents sized up the three bedrooms and one bathroom with the real estate agent, Phyllis Glover, a woman they all knew since Phyllis’s son and daughter had gone to school with Chic and Diane, Chic stood in the backyard, looking at the back of the house. Well, it wasn’t the “new” part of Middleville, but the house had recently been re-sided with aluminum siding. Chic got down on his hands and knees and felt the grass with his hand. He put his cheek in the grass, letting the blades tickle his face. He’d walk on this lawn barefoot on summer mornings as his dog went about its business in the corner over there. He’d play
with his kids in this grass. He ran his hands over the top of the blades. He stood up, wiping his hands. He heard a door open and a dog bark. Behind him, he noticed the neighbor, an older guy, watching him, his hands in his pockets and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Chic nodded at the man. The man took the cigarette from his mouth and blew a wad of smoke. His dog, a small lapdog, squatted in the middle of the yard.
    â€œMy wife and I are thinking about buying the house,” Chic said.
    The man squinted at him.
    Chic couldn’t help but think that in a few years he and this guy could swap stories over the fence while their dogs frolicked in their yards.
    â€œHey, you know what kinda grass this is?”
    â€œIt’s grass.”
    â€œLike is it Kentucky bluegrass? Crabgrass?”
    The man stared at Chic. “You’re one of the Waldbeeser boys, aren’t ya?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œHow’s your mother doing? I used to see her around town, but I ain’t seen her in a while.”
    â€œMy mother’s a stinking polecat, and don’t you ever ask about her again. You hear?” He left the man standing in his backyard with his cigarette and dog.
    Inside, he found Diane and her parents standing in the living room, Phyllis Glover explaining something about south-facing windows. Diane made eye contact with Chic and smiled.
    â€œWe’ll take it,” Chic said.
    Diane’s father shot him a look, and Chic immediately felt like he’d done something wrong.
    â€œHoney,” Diane said. “We haven’t even looked at the upstairs yet.”
    â€œYeah, Chic. Patience,” her father said.
    â€œIt’s not like we’re not going to like the upstairs. It’s just bedrooms, right? We’re just going to sleep up there.”

    They moved in three weeks later. Chic picked up his life where he had left off before the honeymoon, punching the clock every morning at the pumpkin cannery. He wore a hard helmet and white lab coat and stood in a giant, airy room watching cans of Junior’s Pumpkins blur by on a conveyor belt. His job was to detect imperfections—dents, torn labels, anything that would diminish the appeal of a can on a store shelf. If he saw something, he stopped the belt and took a closer look. Chic had an impeccable eye for defects, and Mr. Meyers told him it was only a matter of time before he was promoted out of quality control to a management position on the second floor where he’d have a secretary who answered the phone and a desk stocked with pencils. In fact, Mr. Meyers told Chic that he was grooming his own son, Butch, for one of those jobs. A year younger than Chic, Butch was a senior in high school and already looked the part of management; he wore his hair combed to the side and horn-rimmed spectacles, and after