Twelve Yellow Roses
The lock clicked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was such a small sound. A tiny metal click in a quiet lawyer\u2019s office on a gray Tuesday afternoon in March.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But my brother flinched like he\u2019d been shot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t,\u201d Glenn said. His voice cracked. \u201cPlease. Don\u2019t open that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan didn\u2019t look at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He sat in the leather chair across from the lawyer\u2019s desk. In a borrowed navy jacket two sizes too big for him. With his worn green backpack on the floor between his feet. Holding a small wooden box in his lap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He slowly lifted the lid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And reached inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I need to start at the beginning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With my mother. And a bag of groceries. And a pharmacy parking lot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My name is Susan Albright. I\u2019m fifty-two years old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m a middle school librarian in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I\u2019ve been married to my husband, Tom, for twenty-six years. We have one daughter, Claire, who\u2019s twenty-three and teaches third grade in Philadelphia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother was Iris Kemper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was born in 1945 in a farmhouse outside Strasburg. She married my father, Edwin, when she was nineteen. She raised two children in a little brick rowhouse on Chestnut Street in Lancaster. She taught home economics at McCaskey High School for thirty-one years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She could sew a wedding dress from a pattern in two weeks. She could make a pie crust with her eyes closed. She could look at a fifteen-year-old who\u2019d skipped three classes and make him apologize to her before he even knew why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father died fourteen years ago. A heart attack. In his garden. Among his tomato plants.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After that, my mother lived alone in the house on Chestnut Street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was eighty when she brought a homeless young man home for dinner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His name was Ethan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was twenty-four. He slept behind a closed bookstore on Queen Street. A little used bookshop called Chapter Two that had shut down during the pandemic and never reopened. There was a covered alcove by the back door, out of the wind. He\u2019d been sleeping there for almost a year.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He owned everything he had in one backpack. Green. Canvas. Frayed at the bottom. Patched with duct tape on one strap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They met in October. Two years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the CVS on Duke Street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom had walked there. Six blocks. She refused to stop driving but she also refused to drive anywhere within a mile, because she said walking kept her young.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She came out of the CVS with two canvas bags. Milk. Eggs. A loaf of bread. Her blood pressure medicine. A box of Earl Grey tea. A can of Folgers for when I came over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the edge of the parking lot, the strap on one bag broke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everything spilled. The eggs cracked. The milk rolled under a car. The tea box split open and tea bags scattered across the asphalt. Her pill bottle bounced into a puddle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom stood there. Eighty years old. Looking at her groceries on the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She told me later that four people walked past her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A man in a suit on his phone. A young mother with a stroller. Two teenagers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They looked at her. They looked at the groceries.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They kept walking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then a young man came across the parking lot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tall. Thin. Dark hair that needed cutting. A gray hoodie with a hole in the elbow. Jeans with mud on the knees. A green backpack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He knelt down on the wet asphalt without saying a word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He picked up the tea bags. One by one. He fished the milk out from under the car. He found her pill bottle in the puddle and wiped it on his hoodie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at the cracked eggs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d he said. \u201cThese are done for.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh, that\u2019s all right,\u201d Mom said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stood up. He looked at the broken bag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere do you live, ma\u2019am?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cChestnut Street. Just up the way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He took off his backpack. He unzipped it. He put her milk and her bread and her tea and her coffee and her pills inside. On top of his own things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He zipped it closed. He put it back on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll walk you home,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She told me about it that night on the phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSusan, he was the nicest young man.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom. You let a stranger walk you home?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe carried my groceries. Six blocks. In the rain.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDid you let him in the house?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOf course I let him in the house. He was soaking wet. I made him tea.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHis name is Ethan,\u201d Mom said. \u201cHe\u2019s twenty-four. He\u2019s very polite. He said ma\u2019am. Nobody says ma\u2019am anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom, he could\u2019ve robbed you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe could have,\u201d Mom said. \u201cHe didn\u2019t. He drank his tea and washed his own cup and thanked me and left.\u201d She paused. \u201cHe\u2019s homeless, Susan.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe sleeps behind that old bookstore on Queen Street,\u201d she said. \u201cThe one that closed. He told me. He wasn\u2019t ashamed of it. He just said it like it was the weather.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After that, he started visiting every Thursday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t know how it started. Mom said she invited him back. Ethan said she wouldn\u2019t take no for an answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every Thursday at two o\u2019clock, he knocked on her front door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He carried her groceries.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They\u2019d walk to the CVS together. Or the Giant on Harrisburg Pike. He\u2019d push the cart. She\u2019d tell him what to get. He\u2019d carry everything home in his backpack and two canvas bags.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He fixed her broken porch steps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The bottom two had been rotting for three years. I\u2019d been meaning to call somebody. Tom had been meaning to look at them. Glenn, my brother, who lives twenty minutes away in Lititz and owns a construction company, had said he\u2019d get to it for two summers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan fixed them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He found some old lumber in my father\u2019s garage. He borrowed my father\u2019s tools. The ones Mom had kept in the garage for fourteen years, hanging on the pegboard exactly where Dad left them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He measured. He cut. He replaced both steps. He sanded them and painted them white to match.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It took him three Thursdays.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When he was done, Mom sat on the bottom step and cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEdwin used to say he\u2019d fix these,\u201d she said. \u201cHe said it every spring for ten years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And he listened to stories about my late father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That\u2019s what Mom liked most. I could tell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\u2019d make tea. They\u2019d sit at the kitchen table. And she\u2019d talk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
About Dad. About how they met at a church picnic in 1963. About how he proposed in a canoe on the Conestoga River and almost tipped them both into the water. About his tomatoes. About the time he drove all the way to Pittsburgh in a snowstorm because I\u2019d called crying from college.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan listened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom said he listened better than anybody she\u2019d ever known. He asked questions. He remembered things from the week before. He\u2019d say, Wait, is this the canoe story? Tell me again about the canoe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe\u2019s a good listener, Susan,\u201d she said. \u201cDo you know how rare that is? At my age? Everybody\u2019s in a hurry. Everybody\u2019s looking at their phones. He just sits there and listens. Like it matters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I met him for the first time in December.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I came over on a Thursday. Unannounced. On purpose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wanted to see this man who was spending every Thursday with my eighty-year-old mother. I\u2019d read the articles. About scammers. About people who target lonely widows. About bank accounts emptied and houses signed away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I walked in through the kitchen door without knocking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was standing at the sink. Washing dishes. In a gray hoodie with the hole in the elbow. His sleeves pushed up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom was sitting at the table with her tea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He turned around.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was younger than I expected. He looked younger than twenty-four. Thin. Too thin. Pale. Dark circles under his eyes. A small scar through his left eyebrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Brown. Deep-set. Something in them I couldn\u2019t place. Something familiar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t think about it then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I would later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou must be Susan,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He dried his hands on a dish towel. He held one out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEthan,\u201d he said. \u201cYour mom talks about you all the time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I shook his hand. It was rough. Callused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDoes she,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe says you\u2019re the smart one,\u201d Ethan said. \u201cShe says you read every book in the Lancaster County Library before you were fifteen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEvery one in the children\u2019s section,\u201d she corrected. \u201cShe started on the adult books at fourteen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you want from my mother?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The kitchen went quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom set her teacup down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSusan,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan didn\u2019t look offended. He looked at me for a long moment. Like he was deciding something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNothing,\u201d he said. \u201cI don\u2019t want anything from her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen why are you here every Thursday?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He glanced at Mom. Then back at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause she asked me to come back,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd nobody\u2019s asked me to come back to anything in a long time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t trust him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I want to be honest about that. I watched him for months.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I checked Mom\u2019s bank statements. I called her bank. I asked her if he\u2019d ever asked for money.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNever,\u201d she said. \u201cNot once. I\u2019ve offered. He won\u2019t take it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you mean, you\u2019ve offered?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI tried to give him twenty dollars,\u201d Mom said. \u201cIn November. For fixing the steps. He wouldn\u2019t take it. He said he just wanted something to do with his hands.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI tried to give him a coat,\u201d she said. \u201cYour father\u2019s old wool peacoat. It\u2019s been in the closet for fourteen years. It\u2019s freezing out there, Susan. He sleeps outside.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDid he take it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe took it,\u201d Mom said. \u201cBut he made me promise it was a loan. He said he\u2019d give it back in the spring.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked out the window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe gave it back in April,\u201d she said. \u201cDry-cleaned.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, on her eightieth birthday, he appeared with twelve dollars\u2019 worth of yellow roses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was March nineteenth. A Saturday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were having a party. At the house on Chestnut Street. Just family. Me and Tom. Claire, home from Philadelphia. My brother, Glenn, and his wife, Patricia, and their two sons from Lititz.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom wanted Ethan to come.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA homeless guy, Mom? At your birthday party?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe\u2019s my friend, Glenn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe\u2019s a stranger. You met him in a parking lot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI met your father at a church picnic,\u201d Mom said. \u201cThat\u2019s not much better.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn rolled his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan didn\u2019t come to the party. He said it was for family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But at four o\u2019clock, in the middle of cake, the doorbell rang.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I answered it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan was standing on the porch. On the steps he\u2019d fixed. In his gray hoodie. Freshly washed. His hair was combed. He\u2019d shaved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was holding a bouquet of yellow roses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Twelve of them. Wrapped in cellophane. With a little white ribbon. From the grocery store. Still had the price tag on the plastic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
$11.99.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry to interrupt,\u201d he said. \u201cI just wanted to give her these. I won\u2019t stay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom came to the door behind me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She saw him. She saw the roses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She put her hand over her mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYellow,\u201d she whispered. \u201cEdwin always got me yellow.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d Ethan said. \u201cYou told me. In November. You said he got you yellow roses every birthday for forty-six years. You said nobody\u2019s gotten you flowers since he died.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He held them out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHappy birthday, Mrs. Kemper,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Right there in the doorway. Holding the roses against her chest. With cake on her fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She hugged him. Ethan stood very still. Like he didn\u2019t know what to do with his arms. Then, slowly, he hugged her back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCome in,\u201d Mom said. \u201cPlease. Have some cake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want to intrude.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEthan,\u201d Mom said. Her teacher voice. The voice that made fifteen-year-olds apologize. \u201cCome in and have some cake.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He came in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He sat at the end of the table. He ate one slice of cake. He said almost nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn stared at him the whole time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I later learned he\u2019d spent his last money on them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I found out by accident. Two weeks later. I drove past the old bookstore on Queen Street. I saw Ethan in the alcove by the back door. Sitting on a piece of cardboard. Counting change in his palm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pulled over. I don\u2019t know why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I walked up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked up. He saw me. He closed his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSusan,\u201d he said. \u201cIs your mom okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe\u2019s fine,\u201d I said. \u201cI was just driving by.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at his closed hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEthan,\u201d I said. \u201cThose roses. On her birthday. How much money did you have?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow much?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at the ground.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTwelve dollars,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd forty cents.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s all you had?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He shrugged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI had a job for a while,\u201d he said. \u201cAt a car wash on Lincoln Highway. They let me go in February. That was the last of my pay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy would you do that?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I meant it. I genuinely didn\u2019t understand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Twelve dollars. His last twelve dollars. On flowers for a woman he\u2019d known for five months. Who had a house and a pension and two children and grandchildren.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan shrugged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe deserved flowers on her birthday,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I drove home and sat in my driveway for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d been watching him for six months. Checking Mom\u2019s bank statements. Waiting for him to ask for something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019d spent his last twelve dollars on yellow roses because my father used to buy her yellow roses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I went inside. I told Tom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tom was quiet for a while.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMaybe,\u201d he said finally, \u201che\u2019s exactly who he looks like.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Over the following months, Mom grew terribly fond of him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That\u2019s the only way to say it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She lit up on Thursdays. She\u2019d call me on Wednesday nights and say, Ethan\u2019s coming tomorrow. I\u2019m making pot roast. Or I\u2019m teaching Ethan to make pie crust. Or Ethan\u2019s fixing the kitchen faucet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She knitted him a scarf. Navy blue. He wore it every day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She taught him to make her pie crust. He was terrible at it. She laughed so hard she had to sit down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She found out he\u2019d dropped out of high school at seventeen. She sat with him at the kitchen table every Thursday and helped him study for his GED. Like she was teaching home ec again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He passed it in August.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She framed the certificate. She hung it in the hallway. Next to my college diploma. And Glenn\u2019s. And Claire\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s his. Not ours.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d she said. \u201cHe doesn\u2019t have a wall.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, one Sunday in September, she said something that left me speechless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were sitting at her kitchen table. After church. Drinking coffee. Folgers. The kind she kept for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She set her cup down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSusan,\u201d she said. \u201cI need to tell you something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI asked Ethan to marry me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I nearly dropped my coffee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I actually did spill some. On the tablecloth. The one with the strawberries she\u2019d had since 1978.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom!\u201d I said. \u201cHe\u2019s fifty-six years younger!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She smiled sadly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom, what\u2014how\u2014why?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked out the kitchen window. At Dad\u2019s garden. Empty now. She hadn\u2019t planted tomatoes since he died.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI wanted him to have a home,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cAnd someone to look after him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou could\u2019ve just given him a room. You have three empty bedrooms.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI tried,\u201d Mom said. \u201cHe won\u2019t take it. He says he doesn\u2019t want charity.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo you asked him to marry you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf he married me,\u201d Mom said, \u201che\u2019d have this house when I\u2019m gone. He\u2019d have my pension. Survivor benefits. Health insurance. Edwin\u2019s Social Security. Everything.\u201d She looked at me. \u201cHe\u2019d never have to sleep behind a bookstore again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at my mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eighty years old. Five foot one. In her church dress and her pearls. Calmly explaining that she\u2019d proposed marriage to a twenty-four-year-old homeless man so he could inherit her Social Security.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat did he say?\u201d I asked finally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe laughed,\u201d she said. \u201cAt first. He thought I was joking. Then he saw I wasn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd he got very quiet,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd he looked at me for a long time. And he said no.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank God.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe said,\u201d Mom said slowly, \u201cMrs. Kemper, I wouldn\u2019t marry you for a roof over my head. Not you. Not anybody.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd then he said something I didn\u2019t understand,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom looked at her coffee cup.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe said, Especially not you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t think anything of it at the time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I thought he meant especially not you, because you\u2019re eighty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t know what he really meant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mom didn\u2019t bring up marriage again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But something changed after that Sunday. I could feel it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was different with him. Gentler. Like she was holding something carefully. Like a teacup you\u2019re afraid to drop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She started calling him sweetheart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\u2019d never called anybody sweetheart except Claire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three months later, Mom passed away peacefully in her sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a Thursday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
December fourteenth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan found her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He came at two o\u2019clock like always. He knocked. Nobody answered. He had a key now. She\u2019d given him one in October. He let himself in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was in her bed. Under the wedding-ring quilt she\u2019d made in 1964. With her reading glasses still on and a library book open on her chest. Little Women. She\u2019d read it every December since she was nine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The doctor said she\u2019d gone sometime in the early morning. Her heart. Quietly. She hadn\u2019t felt anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan called me at 2:11.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019ll never forget his voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSusan,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry. I\u2019m so sorry. She\u2019s gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By the time I got there, he\u2019d called 911. He\u2019d called her doctor. He\u2019d called Father Michael at St. Anthony\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was sitting on the floor next to her bed. Holding her hand. With his back against the wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019d taken off her reading glasses. He\u2019d closed the book. He\u2019d folded her hands on top of the quilt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019d put a yellow rose in them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
From the vase on her dresser. The last one left from her birthday. Nine months old. Dried and faded to the color of old paper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\u2019d kept them. All twelve. Hung upside down in the pantry to dry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t say anything when I came in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He just looked up at me. His face was wet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stood up. He let go of her hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll go,\u201d he said. \u201cYou should be with her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEthan\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d he said. \u201cShe was your mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He picked up his green backpack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He walked out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t stop him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I should have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
While arranging her funeral, I found a handwritten note.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was in her desk. In the little room off the kitchen she used as an office. In the top drawer. In an envelope. With my name on the front.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Susan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Inside, on her lavender stationery, in her neat, slanted, home-ec-teacher handwriting:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Susan,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When Mr. Feldman reads my will, please make sure Ethan is there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He won\u2019t want to come. Make him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tell him I said so. Use my teacher voice. You know the one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Love,
Mom<\/p>\n\n\n\n
P.S. Don\u2019t let Glenn talk you out of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read it three times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Don\u2019t let Glenn talk you out of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Why would Glenn try to talk me out of it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I thought she\u2019d probably left Ethan a little money. A few thousand dollars. Maybe Dad\u2019s tools. Maybe the peacoat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That would be like her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I tracked him down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It took me three days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He wasn\u2019t at the bookstore on Queen Street. Somebody had boarded up the alcove. There was a NO TRESPASSING sign.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I went to the shelter on South Prince Street. They hadn\u2019t seen him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I went to the soup kitchen at St. James. A volunteer named Doris said he\u2019d been there for lunch on Tuesday. She said he looked terrible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I went to the public library on Duke Street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the back. At a table in the reference section. With the navy blue scarf Mom knitted wrapped around his neck. Reading.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Little Women.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat down across from him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked up. He didn\u2019t seem surprised.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSusan,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ve been looking for you for three days.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere have you been sleeping?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEthan.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cUnder the King Street bridge,\u201d he said. \u201cThey closed the bookstore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at the book in his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe read that every December,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d Ethan said. \u201cShe told me. She read it to me. Last year. Out loud. On Thursdays.\u201d He swallowed. \u201cShe got to the part where Beth dies and she couldn\u2019t finish. She cried too hard.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He closed the book.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI wanted to know how it ends,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe reading of her will is Tuesday,\u201d I said. \u201cAt two o\u2019clock. Mr. Feldman\u2019s office. On East King Street.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s for family.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe asked for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSusan\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe left a note,\u201d I said. \u201cShe said, He won\u2019t want to come. Make him. Use my teacher voice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan almost laughed. It came out broken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe did not.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I took out the note. I slid it across the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He put his hand over his mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cUse my teacher voice,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWill you come?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at the note for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo I have to wear a tie?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He arrived at the lawyer\u2019s office wearing a borrowed jacket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Navy blue. Wool. Two sizes too big. It hung on his shoulders. The sleeves came down past his wrists.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019d borrowed it from Doris at the soup kitchen. It was her late husband\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019d shaved. He\u2019d combed his hair. He was wearing the navy blue scarf.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And he was clutching the same worn green backpack. With the duct tape on the strap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stood in the doorway of Mr. Feldman\u2019s conference room like he was afraid somebody was going to tell him to leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My brother looked furious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn was sitting at the conference table next to his wife, Patricia. In a gray suit. A Rolex. His reading glasses pushed up on his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019s forty-nine. Three years younger than me. He owns Kemper Construction in Lititz. Forty employees. Big houses. Commercial buildings. He\u2019s done well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He saw Ethan in the doorway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His face went red.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy is he here?\u201d Glenn said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause Mom wanted him here,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom wanted a homeless guy at the reading of her will?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe left a note,\u201d I said. \u201cShe asked for him specifically.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn stood up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis is a family matter,\u201d he said. \u201cHe\u2019s not family.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan flinched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d never seen him flinch before. Not at Glenn\u2019s stares at the birthday party. Not when I asked him what he wanted from my mother. Not when he told me he\u2019d spent his last twelve dollars on roses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But he flinched at he\u2019s not family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGlenn,\u201d I said. \u201cSit down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Feldman cleared his throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019s seventy-four. White hair. Bow tie. He\u2019d been my parents\u2019 lawyer since 1981. He\u2019d handled Dad\u2019s will. He\u2019d handled the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMr. Kemper,\u201d he said to Glenn. \u201cYour mother was very specific. She asked that Mr. Lowell be present.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Lowell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d never heard Ethan\u2019s last name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn went very still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat did you say?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMr. Lowell,\u201d Mr. Feldman said again. He gestured at Ethan. \u201cEthan Lowell. Your mother asked that he be here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn stared at Ethan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He sat back down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Like his legs had stopped working.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t understand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at Glenn. His face had gone gray. His hands were flat on the conference table. Patricia was looking at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGlenn?\u201d she said. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan sat down. In a leather chair at the end of the table. As far from Glenn as possible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He put his backpack on the floor between his feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He folded his hands in his lap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t look at anybody.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The lawyer opened a thick folder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He read through the usual inheritance arrangements.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother\u2019s savings. Split between me and Glenn. Her car, a 2008 Buick with forty-one thousand miles, to Claire. Her jewelry to me. Her sewing machine and fabric to Claire. Dad\u2019s watch to Glenn\u2019s oldest son. Dad\u2019s fishing rods to Glenn\u2019s youngest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Small bequests. Five hundred dollars to St. Anthony\u2019s. Five hundred to the Lancaster Public Library. Two hundred and fifty to the soup kitchen at St. James.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The usual things.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn didn\u2019t move. He was staring at the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then Mr. Feldman stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He took off his reading glasses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe house,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour mother made a change to her will,\u201d Mr. Feldman said. \u201cOn October third. Of last year. Regarding the house on Chestnut Street.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at Glenn. He didn\u2019t look up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHer previous will,\u201d Mr. Feldman said, \u201cleft the house to be sold and the proceeds divided equally between Susan and Glenn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He turned a page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHer current will,\u201d he said, \u201cleaves the house at 418 Chestnut Street, and all its contents not otherwise specified, to Ethan Lowell.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The room was silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at Ethan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He hadn\u2019t moved. He was staring at his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d Patricia said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Feldman read it again. Slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI leave my home at 418 Chestnut Street, Lancaster, Pennsylvania, together with all furnishings and contents not otherwise bequeathed, including my husband Edwin\u2019s tools, to Ethan Lowell. So he will always have somewhere to come home to.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn didn\u2019t say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was the strangest part.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My brother, who\u2019d argued with Mom for two years about the stupid homeless kid. Who\u2019d stared at Ethan through her whole birthday party. Who\u2019d said he\u2019s not family not ten minutes earlier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He just sat there. Staring at the table. Gray-faced.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t say anything at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere\u2019s one final instruction,\u201d Mr. Feldman said. \u201cConcerning Ethan.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan lowered his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Feldman reached beneath his desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He produced a small wooden box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was about the size of a shoebox. Dark wood. Walnut, maybe. Old. With brass corners and a brass latch. A little keyhole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I knew that box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d seen it my whole childhood. On the top shelf of my father\u2019s closet. Behind his hats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dad\u2019s box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He called it his important things box. Glenn and I weren\u2019t allowed to touch it. We used to dare each other to climb up and look inside. We never did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After Dad died, I\u2019d assumed Mom threw it away. Or put it in the attic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My brother suddenly stood up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His chair scraped back so hard it almost tipped over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWait,\u201d Glenn said. \u201cWhat box?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His voice was strange. High. Tight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s Dad\u2019s,\u201d he said. \u201cThat\u2019s Dad\u2019s box. Where did you get that? Mom said\u2014Mom told me she got rid of it\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour mother brought it to me on October third,\u201d Mr. Feldman said. \u201cThe same day she changed her will. She asked me to keep it. And to give it to Mr. Lowell. Along with this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He held up a tiny brass key.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On a faded red ribbon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He handed it to Ethan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan stared at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He held it in his palm. The little brass key on its red ribbon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His hand was shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGlenn,\u201d Patricia said. \u201cWhat\u2019s going on? What\u2019s in the box?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was staring at the key in Ethan\u2019s hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Feldman set the box down on the table. In front of Ethan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan looked at it for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He put the key in the lock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then my brother lunged toward the box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t open that!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He came around the table. Fast. Faster than I\u2019d ever seen him move. His chair crashed over behind him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tom grabbed his arm. My husband. Sixty-one years old. He grabbed Glenn\u2019s arm and held on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGlenn,\u201d Tom said. \u201cSit down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLet go of me! He can\u2019t\u2014that\u2019s Dad\u2019s! He has no right\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom gave it to him,\u201d I said. \u201cShe left it to him. He has every right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t understand,\u201d Glenn said. His voice broke. \u201cSusan, you don\u2019t understand. Please. Don\u2019t let him open it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Ethan had already turned the key.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The lock clicked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was such a small sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My brother stopped fighting. He went limp in Tom\u2019s grip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan slowly lifted the lid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And reached inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first thing he took out was a photograph.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Small. Square. Faded. The colors had gone orange and brown the way photos from the early two-thousands do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His hand started to shake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He set it down on the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I leaned over. I looked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was my father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dad. Edwin Kemper. In his sixties. In his old green cardigan. Sitting on a park bench. In Long\u2019s Park, I think. I recognized the pond behind him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And in his arms, wrapped in a blue blanket, was a baby.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tiny. A few weeks old. Red-faced. Asleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father was looking down at the baby with an expression I\u2019d seen only a few times in my life. At my wedding. When Claire was born.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On the back, in my father\u2019s blocky handwriting:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
E.J. \u2014 3 weeks \u2014 Long\u2019s Park \u2014 April 2002.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho is that?\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nobody answered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan reached back into the box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He took out a stack of envelopes. Rubber-banded together. Thick. Yellowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He slid off the rubber band.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The top envelope was addressed in a woman\u2019s handwriting. Round. Loopy. A high school kid\u2019s handwriting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mr. Edwin Kemper. 418 Chestnut Street. Lancaster, PA.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Return address: T. Lowell. 22 Rockland St., Apt. 3B. Lancaster, PA.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Postmarked March 2002.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He unfolded the letter inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He read it silently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he put it down on the table. He put his face in his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dear Mr. Kemper,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thank you for coming to the hospital. I didn\u2019t think anybody from Glenn\u2019s family would come. He hasn\u2019t called since I told him. He sent me $2,000 in an envelope with a note that said \u201cTake care of it.\u201d I don\u2019t know what that means. I think he means get rid of it. I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His name is Ethan. Ethan James. James was my dad\u2019s name. He\u2019s 7 pounds 4 ounces. He has dark hair and Glenn\u2019s chin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thank you for the diapers and the formula. And the blanket. You didn\u2019t have to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I won\u2019t ask Glenn for anything. I know he\u2019s getting married in June. I know he doesn\u2019t want this. I\u2019m not going to make trouble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But you said you\u2019d like to see him sometimes. If that\u2019s okay with Mrs. Kemper. I\u2019d like that too. He doesn\u2019t have a grandpa. My dad died last year.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thank you for being kind to me. Nobody else was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014 Tammy<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put the letter down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at my brother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn was standing by the fallen chair. Tom had let go of his arm. Glenn wasn\u2019t fighting anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was staring at the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Patricia had stood up. She was staring at her husband.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGlenn,\u201d she said. Very quietly. \u201cWho is Tammy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGlenn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA girl,\u201d he said finally. His voice was barely a whisper. \u201cIn 2001. Before the wedding. She was a waitress. At the Rocky Springs diner. She was nineteen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Patricia put her hand over her mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI was twenty-five,\u201d Glenn said. \u201cWe were engaged. You were in Pittsburgh for that internship. All summer. And I\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He couldn\u2019t finish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe got pregnant,\u201d he said. \u201cShe told me in October. I gave her two thousand dollars. I told her to take care of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at Ethan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For the first time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t know she kept it,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan lifted his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at my brother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHer,\u201d he said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn stared at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot it,\u201d Ethan said. \u201cHer. My mother. Tammy. She kept me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The room was silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked from my brother to the young man in the borrowed jacket at the end of the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dark hair. Brown, deep-set eyes. A scar through his left eyebrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And his chin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Square. Stubborn. With a little dent in the middle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My brother\u2019s chin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father\u2019s chin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was what I\u2019d seen in my mother\u2019s kitchen. That first day in December. When he turned around from the sink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Something familiar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDad knew,\u201d I said slowly. \u201cDad knew. Dad went to the hospital.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He reached back into the box. He took out more envelopes. More photographs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dad holding a toddler on the carousel at Dutch Wonderland. 2004.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dad and a little boy in a Phillies cap at a Lancaster Barnstormers game. 2007.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dad and a boy of about eight standing next to a tomato plant. In a garden. Not our garden. A tiny patch of dirt behind an apartment building. 2010.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
E.J. \u2014 first tomatoes!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe came every month,\u201d Ethan said quietly. \u201cMy grandfather. Edwin. When I was little. He\u2019d pick me up on Saturdays. He\u2019d take me to the park. Or the ballgame. Or the library. He brought my mom groceries. He paid our rent when she couldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He picked up the tomato photo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe taught me to grow tomatoes,\u201d he said. \u201cBehind our building on Rockland Street. In a little patch of dirt by the dumpsters. He brought the plants. Better Boys.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My throat closed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dad grew Better Boys. Every summer. For forty years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe told me he was my grandpa,\u201d Ethan said. \u201cWhen I was six. He said it was a secret. He said there were reasons. He said someday I\u2019d understand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at Glenn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe never told me who my father was,\u201d Ethan said. \u201cHe said that was my father\u2019s job. He said my father would come someday. When he was ready.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn made a sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Something between a sob and a gasp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He sat down. On the floor. Right where he was standing. Next to the fallen chair. In his gray suit and his Rolex.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He put his face in his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat happened?\u201d I asked Ethan. Gently. \u201cAfter Dad died?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan looked at the photographs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI was ten,\u201d he said. \u201cHe stopped coming. My mom didn\u2019t know why. She called this house once. Somebody said he passed away. She didn\u2019t know what to do. She didn\u2019t go to the funeral. She didn\u2019t think she was allowed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He swallowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe money stopped,\u201d he said. \u201cThe groceries. The rent help. Mom was working at a Sheetz. Night shift. It wasn\u2019t enough. We got evicted when I was eleven.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was quiet for a long moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe started drinking,\u201d he said. \u201cThen pills. She tried. She really tried. She went to rehab twice. When I was thirteen I went into foster care. Then back with her. Then foster care again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere is she now?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe died when I was seventeen,\u201d he said. \u201cAn overdose. In a motel on Lincoln Highway.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put my hand over my mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI dropped out of school,\u201d Ethan said. \u201cI aged out of foster care at eighteen. I\u2019ve been on my own since.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He reached into the box one more time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He took out a small envelope. White. Newer than the others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On the front, in my mother\u2019s handwriting:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He held it for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His hands were shaking so badly he couldn\u2019t open it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you want me to?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at me. He nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He handed it to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read it out loud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My dear Ethan,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If you\u2019re reading this, I\u2019m gone. And Mr. Feldman has given you Edwin\u2019s box. And you\u2019ve opened it. And Glenn has probably made a scene.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Let him. He\u2019s earned it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I want to tell you how I found out. Because I don\u2019t want you to think I knew all along. I didn\u2019t. I swear to you I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After Edwin died, I found this box on the top shelf of his closet. I opened it. I read every letter. I looked at every photograph. I sat on the floor of his closet for six hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I learned that my husband of forty-six years had a grandson I\u2019d never met. That he\u2019d been visiting you every month for ten years. That he\u2019d been paying your mother\u2019s rent out of his pension. That he never told me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was so angry, Ethan. At Edwin. For keeping it from me. At Glenn. For what he did. At myself, for not seeing it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I tried to find you. I went to the apartment on Rockland Street. You\u2019d moved. I called the number on your mother\u2019s letters. Disconnected. I hired a man to look for you. He found nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put the box back on the shelf. I told Glenn I\u2019d thrown it away. I don\u2019t know why. I think I was ashamed. Of all of us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, fourteen years later, I dropped my groceries in a parking lot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had to stop reading.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t see the paper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan was crying. Silently. With his hands over his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tom took the letter from me. Gently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He kept reading.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You picked up my tea bags one at a time. You wiped my pill bottle on your sweatshirt. You put my milk in your backpack and walked me home in the rain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t know who you were. Not then. I just knew you were kind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was the steps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When you fixed the porch steps. In November. You went into the garage to get Edwin\u2019s tools. And you didn\u2019t ask me where anything was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You walked straight to the pegboard. You took down the circular saw. The tape measure. The square. The level. You knew exactly where every one of them was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then you said, \u201cHe always kept the level on the left. He said it was the most important tool, so it gets the first hook.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan, Edwin said that. Every time. To Glenn. To Susan. To anyone who\u2019d listen. \u201cThe level gets the first hook.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You said it like you\u2019d heard it a hundred times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night, I went to the closet. I took down the box. I looked at the photographs. At the little boy on the bench in Long\u2019s Park.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He had a scar through his left eyebrow. From falling off the carousel at Dutch Wonderland in 2004. Edwin wrote it on the back of the photo. \u201cE.J. \u2014 2 stitches \u2014 brave boy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You have a scar through your left eyebrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tom stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at Ethan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan reached up and touched his eyebrow. The little white line through it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTwo stitches,\u201d he whispered. \u201cHe held my hand the whole time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tom kept reading.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t say anything. For weeks. I watched you. I listened to you. I wanted to be sure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, in September, I asked you to marry me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know. I know. Susan probably told you I\u2019d lost my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hadn\u2019t. I was testing you. I wanted to see if you\u2019d say yes. If you\u2019d take the house and the pension and the Social Security. If you were the kind of person who\u2019d marry an eighty-year-old woman for a roof.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You weren\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You said, \u201cI wouldn\u2019t marry you for a roof over my head. Not you. Not anybody.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then you said, \u201cEspecially not you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I looked at you. And I knew that you knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I asked you. Right there. At my kitchen table. \u201cEthan. Who are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And you told me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You told me about Edwin. About the park and the ballgames and the tomatoes behind the apartment building. About your mother. About the motel on Lincoln Highway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You told me you\u2019d found my address in an old letter of your mother\u2019s. That you\u2019d walked past my house a hundred times. That you\u2019d sat on the bench across the street and watched me sweep the porch. That you were too ashamed to knock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You said, \u201cI didn\u2019t want you to think I wanted something. I didn\u2019t want anything. I just wanted to know what my grandpa\u2019s house looked like. I just wanted to see his wife.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You said you were standing outside the CVS that day because you\u2019d seen me go in. You\u2019d followed me. You said you were trying to work up the courage to say hello.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then my bag broke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And you finally had a reason.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tom couldn\u2019t keep going.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He set the letter down on the table. He took off his glasses. He wiped his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The room was silent except for my brother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Glenn was still on the floor. By the fallen chair. Sobbing into his hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Patricia was standing over him. Not touching him. Just looking down at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked up the letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was one more page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I made you promise not to tell Susan or Glenn. That was wrong of me. I was protecting Glenn. Again. Like I\u2019ve always done. Like Edwin did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We protected him from consequences his whole life. And look what it cost you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So here is what I want.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The house is yours. Edwin\u2019s house. Edwin\u2019s tools. The pegboard with the level on the first hook. The garden where he grew Better Boys for forty years. It\u2019s yours, Ethan. Not because you need it. Because you\u2019re his. And because you\u2019re mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You\u2019re my grandson.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m sorry I only got to be your grandmother for fourteen months.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And Glenn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If you\u2019re reading this over Ethan\u2019s shoulder, and I know you are:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You have a son. He\u2019s twenty-four years old. He has your chin and your father\u2019s hands and the kindest heart I\u2019ve ever known. He spent his last twelve dollars on yellow roses for a woman he\u2019d known for five months because his grandfather used to buy them for her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He slept behind a bookstore while you built houses in Lititz.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t know if you can ever make that right. I don\u2019t know if he\u2019ll let you try.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I know your father would want you to. He kept this box for ten years waiting for you to be ready.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Be ready, Glenn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s long past time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014 Mom<\/p>\n\n\n\n
P.S. Ethan, sweetheart. Plant the tomatoes this spring. Better Boys. Edwin would want them in the garden again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I folded the letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put it back in the envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I set it on the table in front of Ethan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t pick it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He just looked at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then Glenn stood up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Slowly. Holding onto the table. Like an old man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at Ethan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ethan looked back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They stood there across the conference table. My brother in his gray suit and his Rolex. And his son in a dead man\u2019s borrowed jacket. With a green backpack at his feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The same chin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t know,\u201d Glenn said. His voice was destroyed. \u201cI swear to God. I didn\u2019t know she kept you. I gave her the money. I told her to take care of it. And I never asked. I never called. I never\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI got married in June,\u201d he said. \u201cPatricia and I. We had the boys. I built the company. I never once thought about\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He couldn\u2019t finish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDad knew?\u201d he whispered. \u201cThe whole time?\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Twelve Yellow RosesThe lock clicked. It was such a small sound. A tiny metal click in a quiet lawyer\u2019s office on a gray Tuesday afternoon in March. But my brother flinched like he\u2019d been shot. \u201cDon\u2019t,\u201d Glenn said. His voice cracked. \u201cPlease. Don\u2019t open that.\u201d Ethan didn\u2019t look at him. He sat in the leather …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":23972,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-23971","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23971","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=23971"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23971\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23973,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23971\/revisions\/23973"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/23972"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=23971"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=23971"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=23971"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}