“Hey, Charlie.”
“Hey, Dad.” I gave him a hug.
He was carrying a sixpack of Coke. “Think he’d have any use for this stuff? I broke my leg when I was twelve and couldn’t swill enough of it.”
“Come on in and ask him.”
Mr. Bowditch was sitting in one of the chairs I’d brought down. He’d asked me to bring him a button-up shirt, and a comb for his hair. Except for the pj bottoms bulking over the fixator, I thought he looked pretty squared away. I was nervous, hoping he wouldn’t be too grouchy with my dad, but I needn’t have worried. His meds were kicking in, but it wasn’t just that; the man actually had social skills. Rusty, but there. I guess some things are like riding a bike.
“Mr. Reade,” he said. “I’ve seen you back in the old days, but it’s good to meet you officially.” He held out one of his big veiny hands. “Pardon me if I don’t stand.”
Dad shook with him. “No problem, and please call me George.”
“I will. And I’m Howard, although I’ve had a hell of a time convincing your son of that. I want to tell you how good he’s been to me. A Boy Scout without the bullshit, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Not at all,” Dad said. “I’m proud of him. How are you doing?”
“Mending… at least that’s what the Torture Queen tells me.”
“Physical therapy?”
“So they call it.”
“And here’s a good girl,” Dad said, bending down to Radar and giving her big strokes. “She and I have met.”
“I’ve heard. Unless my eyes deceive me, that looks like Coca-Cola.”
“They don’t. Want some over ice? I’m afraid they’re warm.”
“Coke on ice would be welcome. There was a time when a belt of rum in there would have added some extra zing.”
I tensed a little, but Dad just laughed. “I hear you.”
“Charlie? Want to grab three of those tall glasses off the top shelf and fill ’em with ice?”
“Sure.”
“You might want to rinse ’em first. They haven’t been used for awhile.”
I took my time, listening to the conversation as I rinsed the glasses and cracked the ice out of Mr. Bowditch’s old-fashioned tray. Mr. Bowditch offered Dad condolences on the loss of his wife, said he’d had a few conversations with her on Sycamore Street （“when I used to get out more”）， and she seemed like a lovely woman.
“That goddam bridge should have been paved over right away,” Mr. Bowditch said. “Her death could have been avoided. I’m surprised you didn’t sue the city.”
He was too busy drinking to think of things like that, I thought. My old resentments were mostly gone, but not entirely. Fright and loss leave a residue.
8
It was dark when I walked with Dad back down the path to the gate. Mr. Bowditch was in bed, having made the transfer with only a little help from me while Dad watched.
“He’s not what I expected,” Dad said when we reached the sidewalk. “Not at all. I expected grumpy. Maybe even surly.”
“He can be that way. With you he was kind of… I don’t know what to call it.”
My father did. “He extended himself. He wanted me to like him because he likes you. I see the way he looks at you, kiddo. You mean a lot to him. Don’t let him down.”
“As long as he doesn’t fall down.”
Dad hugged me and kissed my cheek and walked back down the hill. I watched him appear in each pool of streetlight, then disappear again. Sometimes I did still resent him for his lost years, because they were my lost years, too. Mostly I was just glad he was back.
“That went all right, didn’t it?” Mr. Bowditch asked when I went back inside.
“It went fine.”
“And what shall we do with our evening, Charlie?”
“I had an idea about that. Wait one.”
I’d downloaded two episodes of The Voice to my laptop. I set it on the table beside his bed, where we both could see it.
“Holy jumping Jesus, look at that picture!” he exclaimed.
“I know. Not bad, right? And no commercials.”
We watched the first one. I was up for two, but he fell asleep five minutes in. I took my laptop upstairs and read about Lynparza.
9
On Friday, I carried Melissa’s equipment duffel out to her Civic again. I closed the hatchback and turned to her. “I looked up Lynparza.”
“Thought you would.”