There was man who delivered the dry cleaning one summer. He would park his square brown truck on the road and bring the dry cleaning up the long driveway to the side door under the porch. He spoke to my mother for a minute or two. He was always smoking a cigarette. He was thin and tanned, young but lined, with a mass of dirty blonde hair combed into a wave in front. One time after he had gone my mother said to me, “He was in the war, Billy”.