I was thinking of a way to suggest going home when my uncle pointed to a boy and girl coming down the street in our direction. They were about 10 or 11 years old.
"Pull up alongside those kids!" he cried excitedly. "They'll know where Don Sutton lives!"
I stopped reluctantly, wondering what their parents had told them about getting too close to strange men in cars.
I leaned across my uncle's lap. "Could you tell us how to get to——street?"
They exchanged glances, shaking their heads.
My uncle brushed me back. "We're looking for Don Sutton's house," he told the kids in his most kindly, avuncular drawl. "I came all the way from Atlanta, Georgia to see Mr. Sutton. You see this cap? He gave it to me."
The boy pointed up the hill and gave us directions.
"See, I knew those kids would know where Don Sutton lives!" my uncle said on the way up the hill.
Sutton's house is stately gray, trimmed in white. The garage door was raised, revealing a white 1957 Thunderbird. There was room for, maybe, two other cars. On the way up the front walk I deduced that no one was home. The curtains were drawn, two waterlogged newspapers lay at the doorstep. After the Series, Don Sutton had taken his family on a vacation to Florida, where his parents lived. It was obvious that they had not yet returned. The gardener must have left the garage door open.
Uncle Arbria rang the doorbell. As I expected, no one answered. Something had gone out of me. I suddenly felt depressed, exhausted. I had a lot of driving ahead of me.