He gave me a look that said I was insulting his intelligence.
Then one evening, while I was making pasta, I said, “Sweetheart, Mr. Larkin might not want us bothering him.”
Eli was drawing at the table. He didn’t look up.
He just said, “Mom, I think he’s sad in his bones.”
That took me a second.
I stopped stirring.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Because he always says thank you before he opens the door.”
That took me a second.
“What do you mean before he opens the door?”
Eli finally looked up. “He waits until I run away. But sometimes I hide by the tree. He says, ‘Thank you, buddy.'”
Then today happened.
I had no answer to that.
So I stopped discouraging him.
And still, every so often, I’d catch Mr. Larkin looking at me with that same haunted recognition.
Then today happened.
It was late afternoon. Rainy. Gray. Eli was in the living room building a fort out of couch cushions. I was sorting mail at the kitchen table when someone knocked on the front door.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
I opened it and froze.
Mr. Larkin was standing there.
Up close, he looked worse than usual. Pale. Unsteady. His eyes were red.
He had an old photograph in one hand.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, in a trembling voice, “I finally understand who you are. I’ve been looking for you all these years. This little boy helped me.”
It was faded and creased.
My throat closed.
“What?”
He held up the photograph. “I think you should see this.”
I took it.
It was faded and creased. My grandmother stood on the front steps of this house, younger than I had ever seen her. Beside her was a girl, maybe 16 or 17. Dark hair. Serious eyes.
He had one arm around the girl.
And beside them stood a young man.
