I fluffed the cover back over the puzzle and checked out a cabinet between the furnace and the water heater. It was old-fashioned, full of drawers. I found screws in one, pliers and wrenches in another, stacks of rubber-banded receipts in a third, chisels and what had to be a whetstone in the fourth. I put the whetstone in my pocket, grabbed the scythe, and went upstairs. Radar wanted to jump on me and I told her to stand clear so I didn’t accidentally poke her with the blade.
We went out back, where I knew I could get four bars on my phone. I sat on the steps and Radar sat beside me. I opened Safari, typed sharpening with a whetstone, looked at a couple of videos, then went to work. It didn’t take long to put a pretty keen edge on the scythe.
I took a picture to show Mr. Bowditch, then biked to the hospital. Found him sleeping. Biked back in the late afternoon light and fed Radar. Missed baseball a little.
Well… maybe more than a little.
7
On Tuesday afternoon I started scything the tall grass, first in the front yard and then in the back. After an hour or so I looked at my red hands and knew that blisters would soon form there if I wasn’t careful. I put Radar on her leash, walked her down to our house, and found a pair of Dad’s work gloves in the garage. We walked back up the hill, going slowly in deference to Radar’s sore hips. I whacked away at the grass on the side while Radar snoozed, then fed her and knocked off for the day. Dad cooked hamburgers on the backyard grill, and I ate three. Plus cherry cobbler for dessert.
Dad drove me to the hospital and waited downstairs reading reports while I went up to visit Mr. Bowditch. I saw he’d also had a hamburger, plus mac and cheese on the side, but he hadn’t eaten much of either. Of course he hadn’t spent two hours swinging a scythe, and although he tried to be pleasant and looked at some new pictures of Radar （plus one of the scythe and another of his half-cut front lawn）， it was clear to me he was in a lot of pain. He kept pushing the button that released the dope. The third time he did it, it made a low buzzing sound, like when a contestant on a game show gives the wrong answer.
“Fucking thing. I’m maxed out for an hour. Better go, Charlie, before I start barking at you just because I feel miserable. Come back Friday. No, Saturday. Maybe I’ll feel better by then.”
“Any word on when they’re going to let you out?”
“Sunday, maybe. A lady came and said she wanted to help me work on a…” He raised his big hands, bruised on the backs from IV needles, and made quotation marks. “… ‘recovery plan.’ I told her to fuck off. Not in those exact words. I’m trying to be a good patient, but it’s hard. It’s not just the pain, it’s…” He made a weak circling gesture, then dropped his arms back to the coverlet.
“Too many people,” I said. “You’re not used to it.”
“You understand. Thank God somebody does. And too much noise. Before she left, the woman—her name’s something like Ravenhugger—asked me if I had a bed on the first floor of my house. I don’t, but the couch pulls out. Although it hasn’t been made up as a bed in a long time. I guess… maybe not ever. I only bought it because it was on sale.”
“I’ll make it up if you tell me where the sheets are.”
“Do you know how to do that?”
As the son of a widower who had been a very active alcoholic, I did. Also how to wash clothes and buy groceries. I’d been a good little co-dependent. “Yes.”
“Linen closet. Second floor. Have you been up there yet?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I guess now is your chance. It’s across from my bedroom. Thank you.”
“No prob. And the next time that lady comes in, tell her I’m your recovery plan.” I got up. “Better go and let you get some rest.”
I went to the door. He spoke my name and I turned back.
“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.” Then, as if speaking as much to himself as to me: “I’m going to trust you. I can’t see any choice.”
I told Dad what he’d said about me being the best thing that had happened to him, but not about the trusting part. Some instinct made me hold that back. Dad gave me a strong one-armed hug and kissed my cheek and said he was proud of me.
That was a good day.
8
On Thursday I forced myself to knock on the shed door again. I really did not like that little building. No one knocked back. Or scratched. I tried to tell myself I’d imagined that weird skittering sound, but if I had, Radar had imagined it, too, and I didn’t think dogs were much in the imagination department. Of course, she could have been reacting to my reaction. Or if I’m going to tell the truth, she could have sensed my fear and my almost instinctive revulsion.