Mike had insisted on mowing the lawn after church, even if it was the Sabbath and meant to be kept holy. He trimmed the hedges, swiped at the eaves for gunk, and checked the air in the tires on Mom’s car. When I took him a glass of iced tea, I found him in the driveway, finishing up an oil change.
“Mom’s not happy that you’re doing all of this,” I told him, setting the glass next to him. “She said the neighbors are going to talk.”
“Well, they can say whatever they want.” He wiped his hands on a rag before drinking half the tea in one go. “This is the only time I can do it.”
“How much more are you planning on doing?”
“I just need to clean up.” He lowered the hood of the car, letting it clunk into place. “I want to make things easier for Mom while I’m gone. I was thinking of going over to do Oma’s yard next.”
“She wouldn’t let you. Not on a Sunday.” I crossed my arms. “She’ll get after you with her wooden spoon.”
“That’s true. I just don’t want to leave things undone.”
“You know Joel and I are sticking around, right?” I leaned up against the car, feeling the heat of the metal through my cotton shorts.
“I know.”
He drank the rest of his tea. “I guess this just took my mind off things.”
“Are you nervous?”
He shrugged.
“I would be.” I took his empty glass from him. “It’s all happening so fast.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “I mean, I’m not looking forward to it or anything. But there’s something else.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I had a little talk with Grandma yesterday,” he started. “You know, after she got sore at Grandpa and went into the kitchen?”
I told him I remembered.
“Well, we talked for a few minutes about me leaving.” He scratched at his hairline. “Annie, she cried. I hated seeing her like that.”
“She’s worried about you.” I shrugged. “She’s probably afraid you’ll come back shell-shocked like Frank did.”
“Yeah. Maybe,” he said. “What if I do?”
“You won’t. You’re not like him.”
“I am.” He nodded. “I’m a lot like him.”
He opened his mouth to say something else but sighed instead. Licked his lips. Rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand, leaving a black smudge of oil there.
“Mike,” I said, crossing my arms, “you’re only like him in some ways. But you aren’t him. You’re different.”
He smiled and breathed out his nose.
“I sure am going to miss you,” he said. “But don’t let it get to your head or anything.”
Mom called us inside for little dishes of ice cream. Before we went in, Mike gave me his most earnest face, the one with lowered eyebrows and squinted eyes.
“You’ll take care of Grandma, won’t you?” he asked.
I nodded. “I’ll take care of everybody.”
“You promise?”
I did.