Page 19 of Goodbye Days

For the next fifteen minutes, we all try our hand at squirrel rodeo while Blake films us. None of us is very good, but we enjoy ourselves.

Finally we sit under the shade of a tall oak, sweating in the close afternoon heat. Blake edits videos and posts them to his YouTube. Eli texts someone. Mars sketches. I work on a story on my phone.

“New tradition,” I say after a while. “At the end of every summer before school, we grab some Bobbie’s Dairy Dip, come to Centennial Park, and play squirrel rodeo.” If Sauce Crew had official positions, mine would be Keeper of the Sacred Traditions. I love the idea of the families we choose having all the features of familydom, including traditions.

“A tradition to rival Christmas and Thanksgiving,” Mars says.

“Way more fun than Christmas and Thanksgiving, dude,” Blake says.

“What about when we’re in college?” Eli asks.

“We’ll do it while we’re all home over the summer,” I say.

We hang out that way in the relative cool of the tree-formed shadows splayed across the grass, the sunset a purple fire in the leaves. The cicadas hum in our ears like the Earth vibrating.

There’s that feeling that you’ll never be lonely again.

That every time you speak, someone you love and who loves you back will be listening.

Even then I knew what I had.

Nana Betsy takes a while to come to the door after I ring the bell. “Blade? To what do I owe this pleasure?” It’s been a week since Blake’s funeral and she still exudes rumpled bereavement. I’m familiar with this from looking in the mirror. Inside the house behind her, it’s messier than I’ve ever seen it. The lawn is overgrown.

I pull my dad’s work gloves from my butt pocket. “You said Blake helped you with the weeding and it was hard for you to do. So I’m here to help you weed the garden and do whatever else.”

“Oh, heavens.” She waves her hand. “You don’t need to do that. I can pay a boy from the neighborhood a few dollars to do it. But come in. Pardon the mess.”

“I do need to do it.” I meet her eyes. “Please.”

She fixes her genial, even gaze on me. “No you don’t.” She says it softly but firmly.

“Yes I do.” And suddenly I want to cry, so I pretend to cough and look away. I have a flash urge to tell her about the possible DA investigation. As quickly as it comes, I quash it. I can’t bear her thinking of me as a criminal.

She lets me compose myself before she answers. “All right. Let’s go in the backyard. I’ll show you what needs done. Meanwhile, I’ll run to the grocery to pick up a few things to make fresh lemonade and feed you lunch. You deserve better than the week-old leftovers I’ve been living on.”

I really don’t. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Blade. This is not up for debate.”

We go into the backyard. She shows me where to weed. She gets me a basket for the ripe tomatoes. She shows me to the lawn mower and gas, and how to use it. She drives off to the store, and I set to work.

The salt of sweat burns my eyes in the syrupy, stagnant midmorning heat, the sharp, herbaceous scent of tomato vines in my nose. I lose myself in the mindless rhythm of the work. I forget about Judge Edwards. I forget about Adair. I forget about Darren. I forget about the Accident. Maybe this is good practice for when I go to prison and I’m cleaning up the highway in an orange jumpsuit. Bend down. Yank. Toss to the side. Bend down. Yank. Toss to the side. Bend down. Yank. Toss to the side. At first I use my dad’s gloves, but my hands are getting all sweaty so I cast them aside. My hands turn brown with dirt and green from the broken weeds. I don’t even notice Nana Betsy returning.

I’m halfway through mowing the lawn when I see her waving to me from the porch. I cut off the lawn mower.

“Lunchtime! Bring in some of those fresh tomatoes.”

I grab a few of the biggest and reddest ones and step into the blessed cool of the air-conditioned house, thoroughly wiping my feet.

“In the kitchen,” Nana Betsy calls.

I start to enter the kitchen, but for some reason, I can’t make myself. I want to go back outside and keep sweating; keep punishing my body. I want to feel hunger and thirst. I don’t want Nana Betsy to give me comfort and refreshment.

“Come on now,” Nana Betsy calls again.

I break my reverie and walk directly to the sink, scrubbing the dirt and weed juice from my hands. On the kitchen table sits a loaf of white bread, a jar of Duke’s mayonnaise, salt and pepper shakers, a pitcher of fresh-squeezed lemonade clinking with ice, a serrated knife, and two plates.

“Sit down,” she says, pulling out a wooden chair from the table. “Nothing fancy, but to my mind, there’s not a thing on God’s Earth better than a fresh tomato sandwich on a hot day.”