The following week they sat for an hour because Blackjack was called to a fight in the block.
Back to back, like it lessened the pressure somehow.
“I never wanted to be a doctor,” Tooms said. His voice was soft, emanating compassion and care.
“I never wanted to rob a bank,” Patch said. “Actually, that might be a lie.”
Tooms laughed, a sound Patch heard often, a sound he matched often, too.
“My sister died when I was fourteen,” Tooms said.
“How?”
“She was nineteen and fell pregnant.”
Patch ran his hand over the cool cement.
“I found her. I don’t know how she got the rope up over the high branch. Hell, I don’t even know how she learned to tie a running knot. She never was an outdoors type,” he said, chuckling, but Patch heard that note of shock some memories still carried.
In return he asked Patch not of his search, or his struggles, but of himself. Of the things he enjoyed. Of Misty, and, though it hurt like a physical pain, Charlotte.
“I remember, after your father. Your mother came to see me, and I could see it, that she would struggle more,” Tooms said.
Patch listened to his voice, to the soft tone.
“You looked out for me,” Patch said.
“I didn’t do nearly enough.”
“Still.”
“As a parent, what do you want for your children?” Tooms said.
“More than you want for yourself.”
“So the bar is low in your case.”
Patch smiled.
“I’m sorry you’re here, Joseph. But, damn, it’s good to hear your voice.”