An old oak tree near the street brought back the vivid memory of breaking his arm at seven years old. The brick stoop reminded him of simpler times, sitting there with his father talking about everything and anything. “Well, are you going to come in or just stand there like a stalker, Isaac?” His mother’s voice grated from the doorway. He’d been so lost in his memories he hadn’t noticed her opening the door. Barbara Backman was slim and well-dressed in jeans and a white blouse. Her reddish-blonde hair was done in a neat, short style which Isaac was certain was accomplished at the beauty parlor once a week. Her nails were perfectly manicured and polished in a sedate beige color. She wore makeup and her red lipstick highlighted her pursed lips. Arms akimbo, she glared down the lawn at him. He sighed and started up the walkway. “I’m coming in, Mom.” She looked passed him. “That’s some car you’ve got there. Can’t fit more than a bag of groceries in it.” He glanced back at his sleek sports car.
