32

Ed sits in the Cutlass but doesn’t start the car. Buddy is sitting beside him, waiting patiently for the ride to begin. Alice is doing her usual morning routine of vacuuming, something she’s doing more often now that they have this furry dog living with them. He’s on his way to Lil’s. Again. Ed sighs. What would be the harm in changing routine today? He’s already had two cups of coffee. He doesn’t need a third or fourth. But what would he do? He’s run out of household tasks. In the year of his unemployment, aka retirement, he’s painted the trim and edged the walk, taken care of all those little jobs that had been waiting for him to have the time to attend to. Turns out, there weren’t so many after all. Now he’s left with puttering—cleaning out the workshop, sorting through nails and screws. He’s not the kind of guy to sit around watching daytime television; he’s a doer, not a sitter.

It is a crisp, clear September weekday morning and the best he has to do is sit in a coffee shop with guys he has little more in common with than their early retirement, or their living in this little town. Their allegiance to the Sox. Okay, so a few things in common, but is it enough? Ed gets out of the car. Buddy looks at him anxiously, as if to say, What? No ride?

“Be right back.”

The dog seems to nod, but Ed knows that’s just his imagination.

Ed lets himself into his workshop. The garage of the raised ranch leads directly into his work space and Alice’s laundry room. The washer is beating out a rhythm as he opens the cabinet filled with his paint supplies. Ed grabs his wire brush, a whisk broom, and a dustpan and dumps them in the trunk. He has a purpose.

*   *   *

Buddy is furiously excited to stop at the cemetery. He’s behaving like a little kid being taken to the circus, jumping from front seat to back, making this little yipping noise that almost sounds like hiccups. This time, Ed parks the car just inside the flaking pillars and lets the dog out. As he has done before, Buddy courses up and down the driveway until he collapses in the shade of the car. Overprotective Alice would be royally pissed that the dog isn’t on a leash, but that’s their little secret. Buddy isn’t going anywhere.

Ed gets to work scraping the flaking paint from the left-hand column. He’ll give Buck Franklin a call tonight and let him know that if the cemetery commissioner won’t take care of this part of the cemetery, he’ll be losing Ed’s vote in November. The paint drifts down like lead-based snow, covering Ed’s shoes and his face. His bare forearms begin to speckle. He probably should have brought a mask.

The wire brush sings its own song against the rough brick. Stacystacystacy, it whispers.

When Stacy was born, a seven-pound-four-ounce beautiful baby girl, he dreamed of those iconic father-of-a-daughter moments, teaching her to drive and walking her down the aisle. But as she grew up, he found that he got to do those things he might have expected with a son. He taught her to throw a knuckle ball, dribble a basketball, understand football strategies; how to kick a soccer ball.

*   *   *

“Did you have tryouts today?” Ed has seen the high school athletic department’s announcement on the marquee, donated by the class of 1975, for fall sports tryouts. Stacy had been the high-point earner on her middle school soccer team, playing forward, and everyone assumes she’ll be a shoo-in for the JV team now that she’s in high school.

Stacy is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, no sign of the soccer clothes that she lived in for most of middle school.

“I forgot.” Stacy ladles a spoonful of chili out of the simmering pot on the stove. Alice is in the laundry room, and Ed can hear the bang, bang, bang of a sneaker in the dryer.

“How could you forget?”

“I just did. No big deal.”

“Can you try out later?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You don’t sound like this is important to you? Don’t you care?”

Stacy licks the back of the spoon, focusing on anything but looking him in the eye. “I guess so.”

“You guess you care? If you don’t want to play, that’s fine; just don’t ‘forget’ to try out.”

“I just did. People forget things. It’s, like, not the end of the world.”

Ed knows that he needs to back off. In a moment of sharp parental self-awareness, he wonders if it is he who wants her to be on the soccer field. He’d been a decent basketball player, and he understands the benefits of being part of a team, of being active, of being a little bit celebrated while in high school.

Ed thinks that maybe Stacy is just coming into her antijock phase, and he is mindful to let her make her own decisions. But he can’t help asking the question: “Are you afraid you won’t make the team?”

Stacy takes another mouthful of chili. “More like I’m afraid I will.”

*   *   *

Ed rasps the wire brush across three courses of brick, over and over, until his right arm aches and a thin line of sweat darkens the back of his shirt. This is going to be more than a one-morning job, but Ed has plenty of time.

*   *   *

Finally! Finally, Ed has realized that they should wait here for Justine. Such a relief. Ed has found something to do, which seems like what this human requires for happiness—activity. But there is something about the manic way he’s going about this task that keeps Buddy/Mack alert and concerned. Ed is going at the task like he’s in a battle.

They are there from when the shadows cover him entirely until the shadows disappear and, even in the cool air, Buddy/Mack gets warm. He stands and shakes. Sits, watches Ed. Walks around, sniffs. He hears a squirrel and ponders the chase.

Ed finally tires of his activity and sinks down to sit with his back against the pillar he’s been scrubbing so vigorously. Buddy/Mack comes over to him and sits down, happy that they both will sit here waiting for Justine.

After a few minutes, Ed gets up, complaining in tongue language as he climbs to his feet. He opens the car door. “Let’s go.”

Buddy/Mack’s ears droop in disappointment.

Justine has still not come.