Nine
While Mom finishes dinner, Dave and I take Trooper out into the back yard. His butt barely touches the grass and he squats, relieving himself. I clap, so excited he didn’t relieve himself inside and even further get on Mom’s bad side.
“You’re such a good boy.”
He’s so pleased with my response that his little tail wags so hard his whole back end wiggles.
Then the puppy “zoomies” kick in and he tears across the small yard, then runs in frantic circles.
He stops, looking between Dave and me. He can’t decide whether he’d rather explore or stay close.
I scoop him into my arms and Dave reaches over to pet him and scratch behind his ears.
Trooper melts, soaking up every ounce of affection.
The moment I set him down again, he charges through the grass with puppy determination, his oversized paws tripping him at times and carrying him in every direction except the one he intends.
My laughter fizzles and fades. I look past the puppy and Dave, and the state of this space makes me sad.
It was Dad’s pride. Baltimore row homes don’t leave much space in the back yard for dreaming of overgrown English gardens, but somehow, he always made this little patch of earth feel much bigger than it was.
Before I left for basic training, he’d torn out the old above-ground pool we’d practically lived in every summer and replaced it with thick green sod and two raised garden beds bursting with tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers.
Every few weeks he’d send me pictures, standing beside vegetables so impressive you’d think he was entering them in the State Fair.
Now weeds choke the lawn. Dandelions have claimed the grass.
The raised beds sit abandoned beneath July’s relentless sun.
My chest tightens as I realize this heart attack stole more from him than health.
The part of him that found joy in making ordinary things beautiful was also taken, at least for now.
A damp nose nudges my calf, drawing me back to the present.
I glance down to find Trooper looking up at me, his tail sweeping the grass with hopeful enthusiasm.
The instant our eyes meet, he’s instantly distracted by a sound.
He bounds toward Dave, who’s already kneeling beside the garden hose with a bottle of puppy shampoo.
“Come here, little man.”
Trooper obeys without hesitation. Watching him trust so quickly after everything he’s been through makes something warm settle inside me. Dave works the shampoo into his black coat with gentle hands, speaking softly to him the entire time. Trooper leans into every touch.
“What are you two doing down there?” Dad’s voice drifts from the porch above us.
I shield my eyes against the late afternoon sun and grin. “Are you spying on me?”
“Spying?” He laughs, settling farther back into his chair. “I haven’t seen you in quite a while. I’d call it watching with interest.”
I laugh. “That’s a sneaky way of telling me you’re quietly supervising.”
“I’m a dad. I’ll never stop supervising.”
His laughter rolls across the yard, rich and familiar, and for one precious moment he sounds exactly like the father I remember.
Then his gaze drifts toward the grass, and the smile slowly disappears.
“It looks awful,” he says quietly. “I know it does.” He gives one helpless shrug.
“There isn’t much I can do about it this year. ”
“I’ll get it back in shape while I’m home, Dad. Don’t worry about it.”
His eyes soften, but he shakes his head. “It doesn’t make much sense for you to spend your leave fixing something I won’t be able to keep up.”
“No,” Dave says as he turns off the hose, “but I will.”
Dad and I both give him our attention. He says the words so matter-of-factly you’d think he’d volunteered to pick up milk instead of promising to care for another man’s yard.
“It’s not a big job,” he continues. “I’ll stop by once a week, mow the grass, pull the weeds, keep the garden going.
” He pauses to look at me. “It’ll give me an excuse to check on your parents. ”
Dad bursts out laughing then grabs his chest. “Oof! Don’t make me laugh. Babysitting the old folks, are you Dave?”
Something inside me softens. Not because Dave is offering to do this, but because I can’t remember a time when he ever hesitated if someone needed help.
He simply notices what needs doing and quietly decides it’ll become his responsibility.
That’s who Dave has always been, and it’s hitting me in a different way now than when we were kids.
There are some traits in people that just come naturally and while everyone else ran toward whatever looked like a fun time, Dave gravitated toward whatever needed fixing.
I walk over until we’re standing close enough that Dad can’t hear us. “If I agree to it, I pay you.”
Dave wipes his hands on an old towel before looking at me. “Why?”
“Because he won’t let you do it for free. He likes to “pay his own way.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “I wasn’t asking.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” His teasing expression fades, replaced by something gentler. “I care about your parents, Charity.”
The way he says my name does funny things to my heart.
“If it’ll make your dad feel better,” he continues, “pay me—or we can barter.”
“Barter?” I frown. “For what?”
“He can steam up a bushel the next time you come home. By then your dad should be feeling a whole lot better, and we can make a memory. They’re better than money.”
I stand there and stare. Who thinks like that? Who turns mowing a lawn into something more important than neatly manicured blades of grass?
My heart does that little squeeze again, the one that’s becoming entirely too familiar. If he keeps this up, I’m going to have an even harder time leaving. Like, a really hard time.
Dad clears his throat from the porch. “Excuse me.”
Dave and I both look up.
“Since the two of you are talking about me …” Dad leans forward, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I can’t hear everything you’re saying, but I heard enough. Don’t I get a vote?”
Dave looks from Dad and throws me a look.
My eyes follow the same direction.
Without planning it, we answer together. “No!”
Dad throws his head back and laughs, holding a hand over his scar. Before I know it, we’re laughing too and, Trooper, convinced he’s missing something, launches his wet body between us, his tail wagging. Then, a yippy sound escapes.
“Whoah! What was that? A bark?” I bend down and grab the towel just as Dave finishes rinsing him and turns off the water. Something coiled inside me begins to unravel.