“Mom —”
“I know why you’re doing this. Just like you know why I don’t want you to. You’re my son, but I can’t stop you and I know that, too.”
He drew a long breath, noting her weariness. Resignation hung on her like a tattered shroud.
“Why did you come out here, Mom?” he asked. “It wasn’t to tell me all that.”
She gave a melancholy smile. “No. Actually, I came out here to check on you, to make sure you were okay. And to find out how your trip went.”
There was more and he knew it, but he answered anyway.
“The trip was good. Short, though. I feel like I spent more time in the truck than I did with Sophia.”
“That’s probably right,” she agreed. “And her family?”
“Nice people. Close family. There was a lot of laughing at the table.”
She nodded. “Good.” She crossed her arms, rubbing her sleeves. “And Sophia?”
“She’s great.”
“I see the way you look at her.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s pretty clear how you feel about her,” his mom stated.
“Yeah?” he asked again.
“It’s good,” she said. “Sophia’s special. I’ve enjoyed getting to know her. Do you think there’s a future there?”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “I hope so.”
His mom looked at him seriously. “Then you should probably tell her.”
“I already have.”
“No,” his mom said, shaking her head. “You should tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
“What the doctor told us,” she said, not bothering to mince her words. “You should tell her that if you keep riding, you’ll most likely be dead in less than a year.”
20
Ira
“W
hen you wander the house at night,” Ruth suddenly interjects, “you do not do as you say.”
“What do you mean?” I am startled to hear her voice again after this long silence.
“They are not like the diary you made for me. I could read all my letters, but you do not see all the paintings. Many of them are stacked together in overcrowded rooms and you haven’t seen them for years. And the ones you store in the oak boxes you do not look at either. It is impossible for you to even open the boxes these days.”
This is true. “Perhaps I should call someone,” I say. “I could hang different ones on the walls. Like you used to do.”
“Yes, but when I did it, I knew how to arrange them to their best effect. Your taste is not so good. You simply had workers hang them in every open spot.”
“I like the eclectic feel.”
“It is not eclectic. It is tacky and cluttered and it is a fire hazard.”
I smirk. “It’s a good thing no one comes to visit, then.”
“No,” she says. “This is not good. You might have been shy, but you always drew strength from people.”
“I drew strength from you,” I say.
Though it’s dark in the car, I see her roll her eyes.
“I am talking about your customers. You always had a special way with them. This is why they remained customers. And it is why the shop failed after you sold it. Because the new owners were more interested in money than in providing service.”
Ruth might be right about this, but I sometimes wonder if the changing marketplace had more to do with it. Even before I retired, the shop had been drawing fewer customers for years. There were larger stores, with more selection, opening in other areas of Greensboro, while people began to flee the city for the suburbs and businesses downtown began to struggle. I warned the new owner about this, but he was intent on moving ahead, and I walked away knowing I had given him a fair deal. Even though the shop was no longer mine, I felt a strong pang of regret when I realized it was going out of business after more than ninety years. The old haberdasheries, the kind I ran for decades, have gone the way of covered wagons, buggy whips, and rotary-dial phones.
“My job was never like yours, though,” I finally say. “I didn’t love it the way you loved yours.”
“I could take whole summers off.”
I shake my head. Or rather, I imagine that I do. “It was because of the children,” I say. “You may have inspired them, but they also inspired you. As memorable as our summers were, by the end, you were always excited at the thought of being back in the classroom. Because you missed the children. You missed their laughter and their curiosity and the innocent way they saw the world.”