Ethan liked that better.
Then Arthur fell one winter.
Ethan found him.
It was January.
The walkway was icy.
Arthur had gone outside for the mail.
He slipped near the steps.
Ethan happened to be crossing the street.
He called me.
Then 911.
Arthur fractured his wrist.
Nothing worse.
Still, the incident frightened him.
It frightened Ethan more.
After that, Ethan started checking the porch light each evening.
If it was off by nine, he texted Arthur.
You alive?
Arthur always replied.
Unfortunately.
That joke became routine.
I saw the messages once.
“You two are strange.”
Ethan smiled.
“He’s funny.”
“Arthur Holloway?”
“Yes.”
“Are we talking about the same man?”
Ethan shook his head.
“You don’t know him.”
That was true.
Ethan did.
When he turned sixteen, he started working part-time at a grocery store.
I assumed Saturday mowing would stop.
It did not.
He asked his manager never to schedule Saturday mornings.
“Why?”
I asked.
“Mr. Holloway.”
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“You have your own life.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to spend every Saturday across the street.”
He shrugged.
“I like it.”
“What happens when you want to sleep in?”
“I sleep Sunday.”
“What about friends?”
“They exist after noon.”
I stopped arguing.
Then junior year became difficult.
Advanced classes.
College preparation.
Soccer.
Work.
I watched Ethan become exhausted.
One Friday night, he fell asleep at the kitchen table.
I gently woke him.
“You’re skipping the yard tomorrow.”
His eyes opened.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Mom.”
“You need rest.”
“I told him I’d be there.”
“He’ll understand.”
Ethan looked at me.
“People always assume old people understand when everyone gets too busy for them.”
That sentence stopped me.
He continued.
“It takes forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll sleep afterward.”
I let him go.
Arthur noticed too.
The next Saturday, he refused to let Ethan mow.
“You look terrible.”
Ethan laughed.
“You look worse.”
Arthur pointed toward the porch.
“Sit.”
Apparently, they spent the morning drinking coffee and arguing about college.
Arthur wanted engineering.
Ethan wanted mechanical design.
Arthur called that “engineering with extra excuses.”
Ethan came home annoyed.
“He thinks civil engineering is the only real kind.”
I smiled.
“He’s eighty-two.”
“He’s allowed bad opinions.”
“He’s wrong.”
Their arguments became affectionate.
By senior year, Arthur attended one of Ethan’s soccer games.
He sat beside me.
Wrapped in a blanket.
Complained about the referee.
Loudly.
“Arthur.”
“What?”
“He’s seventeen.”
“The referee?”
“No.”
“Then the referee should know better.”
Ethan heard about it afterward.
He loved it.
Arthur also attended Ethan’s academic awards night.
Nobody invited him officially.
Ethan did.
Arthur wore a suit.
I had never seen him in one.
He looked completely different.
Still grumpy.
But distinguished.
After the ceremony, Ethan introduced him to a teacher.
“This is Mr. Holloway.”
“My neighbor.”
Arthur corrected him.
“Friend.”
Ethan went quiet.
Then smiled.
“Yeah.”
“My friend.”
That was probably the moment Arthur decided what happened later.
I did not know.
Neither did Ethan.
During the summer before Ethan’s eighteenth birthday, Arthur’s health declined.
His breathing became difficult.
He lost weight.
Ethan noticed before I did.
One Saturday, he came home early.
“He wouldn’t let me mow.”
“Why?”
“He said he was tired.”
“Maybe he was.”
“He’s always tired.”
I looked across the street.
Arthur’s curtains were closed.
“Want me to check?”
“No.”
“He said his daughter’s coming.”
I knew almost nothing about Arthur’s children.
A son named Michael lived in Arizona.
A daughter named Susan lived several hours away.
They visited occasionally.
Not often.
I never judged them.
Families are complicated.
People have jobs.
Children.
Lives.
Arthur never complained about them.
At least not to me.
He may have spoken differently to Ethan.
A few days later, Susan arrived.
An ambulance came that night.
Arthur spent four days in the hospital.
Ethan visited twice.
When Arthur returned home, hospice followed.
That was when we understood.
Cancer.
Pancreatic.
Advanced.
Arthur had known for months.
He had told almost nobody.
Ethan was furious.
“You should’ve told me.”
Arthur sat in the porch chair.
“I just did.”
“Before now.”
“Why?”
“So I could help.”
“You already help.”
“That’s not the same.”
Arthur looked at him.
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“Do not turn dying into a project.”
Ethan went silent.
Arthur continued.
“You cannot fix it.”
“I know.”
“No.”
“You don’t.”
Arthur rested his hands on the blanket across his knees.
“You are eighteen.”
“You still think effort solves everything.”
“Usually it helps.”
“Yes.”
“But sometimes the work is staying.”
Ethan looked down.
Arthur smiled faintly.
“You’re good at that too.”
Afterward, Ethan spent more time across the street.
Not every day.
Arthur would not allow that.
He insisted Ethan attend work.
See friends.
Finish college applications.
Live.
But Saturdays remained theirs.
There was no more mowing.
A landscaping service handled that.
Ethan sat on the porch.
Sometimes they played chess.
Sometimes Arthur slept.
Sometimes Ethan read.
One Saturday, I brought soup.
Arthur barely ate.
After Ethan went home, Arthur asked me to stay.
I sat beside him.
He looked across the street at our small house.
“You did a good job.”
“With what?”
“The boy.”
My throat tightened.
“He did most of it himself.”
Arthur shook his head.
“That’s what good parents always say.”
I smiled.
“You going sentimental on me?”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“I’ll protect your reputation.”
He became serious.
“His father?”
“Gone.”
“Completely?”
“Yes.”
“Does Ethan ever ask?”
“Not anymore.”
Arthur nodded.
Then he said.
“Some men don’t understand what they’re abandoning.”
I looked at him.
He was not talking only about Ethan’s father.
I knew that.
“Your kids love you.”
Arthur stared toward the street.
“I know.”
“But?”
“No but.”
He paused.
Then sighed.
“Maybe one.”
I waited.
“I was not easy.”
That I believed.
Arthur continued.
“I worked constantly.”
“I missed things.”
“Games.”
“Birthdays.”
“I thought paying for everything counted as being there.”
“When Evelyn got sick, the children helped.”
“Then she died.”
“And everyone went back to their lives.”
He looked at me.
“I was angry.”
“At them?”
“At myself.”
“But anger is lazy.”
“So I pointed it at them.”
I stayed quiet.
Arthur continued.
“Ethan never asked me to be pleasant.”
“That helped.”
I smiled.
“He doesn’t ask me either.”
Arthur laughed.
Then coughed for almost a minute.
When he recovered, he looked exhausted.
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“When I’m gone, something may happen that surprises you.”
