I had come up with no fewer than four lectures to give Eric that covered everything from his lack of financial responsibility to the waste of valuable space that was the younger generation. I practiced them on the Old Man, who’d hung around most of the night before. We laughed a lot that night; things seemed better. Whatever it was that had been bothering him had settled itself. He was the Old Man again, and I was glad to have him back.
“Angels aren’t all-powerful, you know,” he told me. We were out on the front porch enjoying the crickets and the frogs before I turned in. That part of the night, the quiet time, was when he often would settle into something serious. “Some of us struggle. And we all cry. Folks will say that the best way to tell an angel is the wings and the halo. That’s bull. You can tell an angel by his tears.”
“What’s an angel got to cry about?” I asked. “Seems to me that y’all have it pretty easy, what with gallivanting all over the galaxy and whatnot.”
He rocked in his chair—he liked doing that, but only when he knew no one was looking—and smiled. “You’re not too bright for a human being, are you?”
I smiled back. “And you’re not too comforting for an angel.”
“Well, there’s a time for comforting and there’s a time for teaching. I guess you could say there’s been a lot of teaching.”
“Then maybe I’m brighter than you think,” I said.
“No, Andy. I know better. But you’re brighter than you think.”
I waved him off and finished my glass of mint tea. “Let’s head inside. What’s it gonna be, ball game or cop show?”
“Don’t matter,” he said.
“Ball game it is.”
I opened the screen door and he was already on the couch. We found the Yankees on ESPN and settled into our normal routine of talking at rather than to each other through the first few innings.
I’d just gotten up to grab another glass of tea when he said, “Thank you, Andy.”
“For what?” I called from the kitchen.
“For saying that prayer,” he said. “The one you said to the star when you were a kid.”
I walked back to see Mariano Rivera jogging in from the bullpen. Game over, I thought. I sat back down on the sofa next to him and laughed.
“What are you thanking me for? Feels to me like this has been a one-person job. You show me stuff, and that’s it. Can’t see that you get much out of it.”
“But I do, Andy. More than you know. This has been just as much for me as it has you.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked. “What’d you do, screw up the first time around and get me as a second chance?”
“Something like that,” he said. “I’d explain it, but I don’t know how.”
Rivera had gotten the first man to break his bat on a weak ground ball. I turned to comment to the Old Man that the Yankees closer was responsible for more dead trees than a Brazilian timber company, but he had that serious look in his eyes again. And what could have well been tears.
“You ain’t looking for a hug or anything like that right now, are you?” I asked.
He snorted. “No, I don’t want a hug. I just wanted you to know. You’ve come a long way.”
“I suppose,” I said. “I’m gettin’ darn near as old and ugly as you.”
“I guess.”
And that was all he said.
*
Saturdays were never that busy at the gas station. I always had a few loafers in the morning—farmers hanging out between milkings, retirees. But by nine or so they were off to tend to their cows and yards, leaving me to putter around and wait for the occasional car to pull up to the gas pumps. The Old Man showed up just after dinner.
“About time you got here,” I told him. “Don’t worry, you haven’t missed anything. Eric hasn’t shown up yet. I swear, if he skips out I’m gonna—”
“—he won’t skip out.” He walked past me and took a seat in his usual booth. “He’ll be here.”
“I gotta be honest, I kind of hope he doesn’t.”
“Because him showing up will prove he’s a good kid?”
“No. I already know that. But if he doesn’t show, I’ll have enough ammunition to use on him from now until I’m old and gone.”
“You really do like him, don’t you? Jabber too.”
I wiped the counter and without looking up said, “I love both those boys. Guess the time’s passed for me to have kids. Don’t get me wrong, that’s okay. Not blamin’ you or anyone else. That’s just the way it is.”
“I think so, Andy,” he told me. “I think you’re exactly right.”
“So anyway,” I said, still wiping, “I reckon they’re like the kids I never had.”
The Old Man fumbled with his bracelet and said nothing. Which was disappointing, actually. I expected him to be happy that I would say such a thing.
“Are you in a mood again?” I asked him. “Is there some kind of angel shrink you need to go see?”
“Remember last night when I said you could always tell an angel by his tears?”
“Yep.”
“You asked me what an angel has to cry about. I never answered.”
“Nope.”
The Old Man let go of his bracelet and looked at me. “Angels feel the weight of the world, Andy. They see all the pain and all the suffering, just like everyone else. But they feel it, too. That’s the worst part. God mourns this world. He loves it—all of it—and He loves every person who calls it home. But He mourns what’s become of it, even though He knew from the beginning what would happen. There’s a weariness to this world that touches everyone who walks upon it. Not just people, either. It’s a fight as old as time itself. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t keep the world away. Do you understand?”
I could. Even in Mattingly, the place where time slowed and then dragged and then stopped altogether, the weight of the world found us all. I could see it on the faces of the people who came and went from my gas station every day. I could see it on my own.
“Yes,” I said. “I think I understand that.”
“There is more to this life, Andy. Beyond it, yes. But within it, too. You’re going to have to look beyond what you normally see. You won’t understand it, so you’ll have to trust.”
“Trust what?” I said.
“God and me.”
“Sure,” I said. “I can do that.”
He looked at me and said “Remember that” in a way that made me feel as though he knew I wouldn’t.
“Would you please stop acting so weird?” I told him. “You’re not only depressing me, you’re messing with my mojo. I gotta be on my game for when Eric comes.” I looked at the clock—twenty minutes until closing time. “If he comes. Almost time for us to head home.”
I grabbed the push broom from behind the counter and began sweeping the store, which was for the most part the only tidying that ever needed to be done before closing.
“I have to go, Andy,” the Old Man said.
“Just like you to skip out as soon as there’s work to be done,” I said, as I corralled a dust bunny by the trash cans. “You’re not gonna hang around to see if Eric comes?”
“He’s coming. But I need to go.”
“Suit yourself,” I said. I didn’t look at him. Didn’t feel like I needed to. Our good-byes were always temporary. “I’ll see ya later.”
I put the broom aside and turned my back to empty the trash. My hand grabbed the front of the can as I pulled it out from under the coffee counter and sank into a thick layer of tobacco spit. I decided for the thousandth time I needed to tell customers to stop using it as their own personal spittoon. I was going to ask the Old Man to remind me of that Monday morning, but then I heard the door open and close.
“You’re using doors now?” I said, still bent over the can. “What’s up with that?”
“What am I gonna use, you old codger? The window?”
I looked up to see Eric leaning against the counter. The booth was empty.