The scar on his knee.
How he hated thunderstorms until age twelve.
How he could draw motorcycles beautifully but could not fix one without losing three bolts.
How he once painted Mack’s dog blue accidentally.
How he cried at sixteen when a girl broke up with him and denied it for twenty years.
Eli collected these stories greedily.
One evening, he asked:
“What was Dad’s last thing he said to you?”
Mack went quiet.
They were sitting beside a pond.
Fishing rods resting across their knees.
Mack stared at the water.
“I don’t remember.”
Eli looked surprised.
“You don’t?”
“I remember the fight.”
“I remember what I said.”
“I remember pieces of what he said.”
“But the exact last words?”
“No.”
“Is that bad?”
Mack thought.
“I used to think so.”
“What do you think now?”
“I think we put too much weight on last things because we know they were last.”
Eli watched the water.
“What do you remember instead?”
Mack smiled.
“First thing.”
“What?”
“When he was about three, he looked at my motorcycle and said, ‘Too loud.’”
Eli grinned.
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fix it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I was young and stupid.”
Eli nodded seriously.
“You say that a lot.”
Mack laughed.
“Accurate description.”
The boy’s bobber disappeared.
“Fish!”
He nearly dropped the rod.
Mack helped.
They pulled in a tiny bluegill.
Eli stared at it.
“Can we keep it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Too small.”
Eli gently returned it to the water.
They watched it disappear.
Mack thought of Aaron.
Some things you hold.
Some things you release.
The hard part is knowing which.
11
Eli’s mother took longer.
Mack understood why.
He was angry with her.
She was angry with him for being angry.
Both had reasons.
The first serious argument came three months after Red Hollow.
Eli was staying overnight at a friend’s house.
Mack came by to help repair a leaking kitchen faucet.
The faucet took fifteen minutes.
The argument took two hours.
Mack stood beside the sink.
“You could have found me.”
She crossed her arms.
“We’ve discussed this.”
“No.”
“We’ve argued.”
“Different.”
She stared.
“You think I don’t know I could have?”
“I lost nine years.”
“So did I.”
“You had him.”
“I had a child without his father.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“No.”
“But the man he would have called Grandpa spent those years drinking, fighting, riding across half the country, and refusing to answer letters.”
Mack’s face tightened.
“What letters?”
She stopped.
Mack stared.
“What letters?”
She closed her eyes.