“Can I use the mower?”
I looked outside.
“Our grass isn’t long.”
“Not ours.”
I frowned.
“Whose?”
“Mr. Holloway’s.”
“Did he ask?”
“No.”
“Then maybe don’t invade his property with lawn equipment.”
Ethan rolled his eyes.
“He almost fell yesterday.”
That changed things.
“What happened?”
“He was trying to pull the mower out.”
“He had to sit down on the driveway.”
I looked across the street.
Arthur’s grass was higher than usual.
“You can ask.”
“I will.”
Ethan crossed the road.
I watched through the kitchen window.
Arthur opened the door.
Ethan spoke.
Arthur shook his head.
Ethan said something else.
Arthur pointed toward our house.
Ethan pointed at me.
I immediately pretended I had not been watching.
Five minutes later, Ethan rolled our mower across the street.
He returned an hour later sweating through his shirt.
“Did he pay you?”
“No.”
“Did he offer?”
“Twenty dollars.”
“Why didn’t you take it?”
Ethan opened the refrigerator.
“Because that makes it a job.”
I stared at him.
“And?”
“I already have chores.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He grabbed a bottle of water.
“He needs help.”
“That’s enough.”
I smiled.
“Okay.”
The following Saturday, Ethan went again.
Then the next.
By October, it had become normal.
Sometimes he raked leaves instead.
In winter, he shoveled snow from Arthur’s walkway.
Spring meant cleaning branches.
Summer meant mowing.
Every Saturday.
Arthur tried paying him repeatedly.
Ethan always refused.
One afternoon, Arthur walked across the street himself.
He carried an envelope.
I opened the door.
“Arthur.”
“Claire.”
He held the envelope out.
“Your boy refuses money.”
I smiled.
“I know.”
“You need to make him take this.”
“I’m not doing that.”
Arthur frowned.
“He works.”
“He should be paid.”
“He disagrees.”
“He’s fourteen.”
“So?”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
I laughed.
“I wouldn’t tell him that.”
Arthur looked toward our kitchen.
Ethan was doing homework.
“He’s stubborn.”
“Yes.”
“You know where he gets that.”
Arthur almost smiled.
Then he looked at the envelope.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Keep it.”
“I don’t need charity.”
“Neither does Ethan.”
Arthur stared at me.
Then he slowly put the envelope back into his pocket.
“Fine.”
He turned.
Then stopped.
“Thank you.”
I nodded.
“He’s doing it because he wants to.”
Arthur looked across the street toward his empty house.
“That makes it worse.”
I understood what he meant years later.
At the time, I thought he was joking.
Their relationship slowly changed.
At first, Ethan only worked.
Arthur watched.
Then Arthur started bringing him lemonade.
Later, they sat together after the yard was finished.
Ten minutes.
Then twenty.
Eventually, Ethan sometimes stayed an hour.
I never asked what they talked about.
Teenage boys already have enough adults interrogating them.
Then one evening, Ethan came home carrying an old wooden box.
“What’s that?”
“Chess.”
“Since when do you play chess?”
“Since today.”
Apparently, Arthur had taught him.
Saturday yard work became Saturday chess.
Sometimes Arthur won.
Usually Arthur won.
Ethan hated losing.
That kept him interested.
Then Arthur started helping with algebra.
I did not know he could.
Ethan explained.
“Mr. Holloway used to be an engineer.”
“What kind?”
“Civil.”
“He designed bridges.”
I blinked.
“Our Mr. Holloway?”
Ethan looked offended.
“What does that mean?”
“He sits on a porch yelling at squirrels.”
“He can do both.”
Fair.
The old man had spent thirty-eight years working on roads, bridges, and municipal projects across three states.
He had retired when Evelyn became ill.
The information surprised me.
Arthur had never mentioned any of it.
His house looked ordinary.
His car was twelve years old.
He wore the same three flannel shirts.
There was nothing about him that suggested wealth or importance.
Ethan did not care anyway.
What impressed him was that Arthur understood trigonometry.
That was apparently enough.
When Ethan turned fifteen, Arthur gave him a birthday card.
There was fifty dollars inside.
Ethan returned the money.
Arthur came to my door again.
“This is ridiculous.”
“What happened?”
“Your son insulted me.”
Ethan called from the kitchen.
“I did not.”
Arthur shouted back.
“You returned my birthday gift.”
“Because you’re trying to sneak-pay me.”
“It was a birthday gift.”
“You wrote, ‘For all your hard work.’”
“That is something normal people write.”
Ethan appeared.
“You’re bad at being sneaky.”
Arthur glared.
I started laughing.
Neither appreciated that.
Finally, Arthur compromised.
He bought Ethan a used set of engineering drawing tools.
Ethan accepted those.
That became their system.
No money.
Occasional books.
Tools.
Chess sets.
One battered calculator.
Arthur gave him knowledge instead of cash.
