I glanced toward the house, amazed that he would simply throw it out, especially after spending all that time on it. The poor kid really had needed my help, and all I’d done was ride on by.
I felt terrible. I considered knocking on the door, introducing myself to his parents, and offering to fix whatever was wrong if I could. But, again, I had no idea how something like that might be received. Behind me, I heard the telltale beep-beep-beep of the garbage truck slowly working its way along, so I knew I needed to make a decision.
Impulsively, I removed the skateboard from the can and tucked it under my arm. Then I carried it home, deciding I would fix it here, on my own, and then bring it back. For now, though, I was itching to get to my big project, so I set the skateboard aside in a corner of the garage to work on later.
I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon out back, removing the last of the bushes on the south side of the house and decreasing the amount of space taken up by the pebbled walkway. I found an empty heavy-duty storage tub in the garage to put the extra pebbles in. When I was finished, I would use them for ground cover in between the boxes to make access for planting, watering, and harvesting easier.
Brady had told me where the nearest builders’ store was, so in the midafternoon I made the trip to get the supplies and rent a table saw and sawhorses, and this time I used Liz’s GPS to get there and home again. Some conveniences sure made life easier.
Back at the house, I eased Dad’s car out of the garage and parked it next to Liz’s so that I would have the space to set up my work area inside. Once I got organized, I dove right in. I was relieved that it didn’t take long to get the hang of using the saw, which was similar to one I used back home—though mine was retrofitted to run on compressed air while this one simply plugged into an outlet in the wall.
Dad didn’t have a sander, but I actually preferred using elbow grease to get the shorn ends smooth. The heady smell of pine as I rubbed the planks reminded me of home, and the exercise felt good.
I stopped at six, made myself a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches, and checked my email to see if there was a message from Dad about the box of photos. There wasn’t. I shut down the computer and went upstairs for a shower. After cleaning up, feeding the dog, and bringing in the mail, I secured the house to go to Brady’s football game.
The last time I had seen him play had been four years earlier when he was on a Pop Warner team and I happened to visit at a time when the season had just started. I didn’t remember much of that game, only that Brady had a solid kick for a ten-year-old.
Watching him now, it was easy to see that he was incredibly gifted—and that the pressure on him must be tremendous. On three different fourth-down situations there was no hope for points unless Brady kicked a field goal. Anybody on the field could make a touchdown, even a defensive player if he caught an interception or recovered a fumble. But only one person could do the job Brady had. He did it beautifully.
And he was only fourteen years old.
Making the stakes even higher was the fact that most of the other players were seniors whose post–high school plans would be shaped by how the team fared overall this season. Brady’s points made the better players shine all the more. Add to that the load our father was heaping on him, and it was no wonder he was bucking against it.
By the end of the game, not only had my empathy for Brady greatly increased, but I was surprised to find myself empathizing with my father as well. Just like Dad, I began to swell with satisfaction over the way Brady handled himself on the field. When the last points on the scoreboard, which were his, sealed the win for his team, I nearly turned to the family sitting next to me and said, “That’s my brother!” in a very non-Amish display of pride.
Afterward, as the crowd began moving from the stands and the team jogged off the field to head to the locker room, I said a quick prayer, asking forgiveness for my attitude, strength and guidance for Brady, and the right words to speak to my father on his behalf.
The night was chilly, even for Southern California, and as I made my way to the snack bar to meet Aaron’s sister Lark, I wished I had worn something heavier than Dad’s hoodie. Most people were headed out of the stadium and away from the concessions, so I found myself going against the tide as I walked.
I had no idea what this Lark person looked like, so I positioned myself near the first window, within easy view of the departing spectators, and waited for her to find me. After a few minutes my phone vibrated with a message from Brady. He was finished in the locker room and some teammates were going to “In and Out,” whatever that was, for hamburgers and shakes. He didn’t need a ride home. And he didn’t invite me to join them.
I texted him back. These friends are ones Dad and Liz are okay with?
Yes was his short answer.
I replied with, Have fun and be careful.