Mr. Vance wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
Sometimes I would see Noah finish the lawn, wipe his forehead with his shirt, and stand by the porch.
Mr. Vance might say three words.
Noah might say two.
“What did you two talk about?”
Then Noah would come home.
“What did you two talk about?” I’d ask.
“Nothing.”
“You stood there for ten minutes.”
“Yeah.”
“What did he say?”
That was apparently an entire conversation between them.
“He said it’s hot.”
“And?”
“I said yeah.”
That was apparently an entire conversation between them.
Still, during mowing season, Noah never missed a Saturday unless we were out of town.
His voice sharpened.
“I invited Dad constantly.”
Claire said softly, “I know.”
“He always had an excuse.”
“Dad couldn’t come watch his own grandson play ball.”
Aaron laughed without humor.
“Too tired. Too hot. Bad knees. Didn’t feel like crowds.”
