Return to Oakpin(22)

            They talked. She sat on the bed and felt his forehead, and he sipped the coffee and had some toast. It was the first time they’d spoken without tears. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said.

            “It is,” she said. “Sunny and clear. How are you feeling?”

            “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m tired. You’ve done a nice job on the garage. Is this all for me?”

            “I’m sorry you’re not in the house with us,” she said. “Your father just has too much on his mind with all of it.”

            “I understand that. Believe me. I didn’t think I’d be back here causing you this trouble.” He lifted his hand, the fingers. “I need to talk to you.”

            “It’s not any—”

            “It’s trouble, Mom. I’m glad to see you, but it’s trouble. I mismeasured it in New York, thinking my money would outlast me, but I couldn’t sit there anymore. At the end I wasn’t even with friends of friends. They had no way of handling, of dealing with—”

            “We want you here,” she said. “The garden’s coming in.”

            “Thank you,” he told her. “But I need you to see it all.” Now he lifted both hands and pressed his fingers against his eyelids. “It’s going to be a mess. I’m going to die out here. My insurance is gone. You’re getting a tough deal. There’s some Medicaid, but I’m going to leave you flat, holding the bag. You’re going to have to call the mortuary, bury me.”

            His mother sat still. She took his hand. “Do you understand this?” he went on. “Do you see that is what is going to happen? If I had a choice, I’d help you somehow, but I’m all out. There’ll be a little money next spring from my books, but still.”

            “I’m happy you’re home,” she said. “I can do what I need to do.” They sat. He noticed the sunlight from the window had moved down, onto the floor.

            “Are you going to have a ton of zucchini?”

            “We already do. You want to see it?”

            “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll get dressed in a while. I’d like to see the garden. Tomatoes?”

            “Any minute,” she answered.

            “I wouldn’t mind a tomato sandwich. I want to count a tomato sandwich in my future.”

            She stood and straightened the covers. “You heard me, right, Jimmy? I can do what I need to do. I’m your mother.”

            “Thank you,” he said. “I heard it all.”

            • • •

            On Tuesday every week, after football practice and dinner, Larry Ralston would meet Wade Nunley at the park, and they would run for an hour through the town. Saturday they’d hang out, sore from the game, and Sunday throw the ball a bit, and then Monday was school and practice, Tuesday the same, but their theory was that a long run Tuesday night made them strong. They’d be tired Wednesday but back by Thursday, and then there was nothing but to polish their helmets and put on their clean jerseys for the game on Friday or Saturday. No one asked them to do it, and no one else did it. What it was was, they were brimming, and they had plenty, and so they ran. Once they had done it for three weeks, they could not not run. They were full of life, and the nights were stunning in Oakpine in September. Larry could feel the torque of the earth pulling away from the sun, the air trying to chill, and they ran through it, crossing downtown with long steps, floating, alive. From there they ran out past the high school and up toward Oakpine Mountain, a route that if you described it to people would make them wonder at such length, the miles, loping like animals through the dark along the undermountain road. For Wade it was work, the last third, but his father was the coach, and Wade was a good soldier.