The leaves of Littlefield had turned red, yellow, and deep bronze, drifting across glowing green lawns, onto hedges and doorsteps and the gleaming roofs of parked cars. In the community gardens, purple aster and ragweed bloomed where the gardeners quit weeding and the pumpkins were fat and orange. Soccer season had reached its apex, and in the afternoon squads of girls in yellow jerseys, black shorts, and black kneesocks sprinted back and forth in the park, while coaches blew whistles and soccer balls flew into the bright air. Houses, stop signs, bicycle fenders, all wore a precise, gleaming look, a clarity brought on by the cool, dry weather, and in the evenings the light turned gold as it was gathered into the harlequin trees, caught within nets of branches and leaves. On Rutherford Road, white cobwebs stretched across the rhododendrons in front of houses where children lived and construction-paper witches and black cats decorated the windows. Houses without children had at least a Hubbard squash on the front steps, or hanging from the door knocker a spray of red and yellow bittersweet.
