“What’s that?”
Hank paused.
“Ask your teacher.”
“That means you don’t know.”
“I know.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s a document.”
“What document?”
Hank closed his eyes.
Daniel.
Absolutely Daniel.
“Your father warned me about this.”
“About what?”
“Questions before coffee.”
“It’s afternoon.”
“Not helping.”
Eli laughed.
They spoke for twenty-seven minutes.
Hank knew because he checked afterward.
The following Sunday became thirty-four.
Then forty-two.
Sometimes Eli talked.
Sometimes he drew while Hank remained on speaker.
Sometimes they watched the same baseball game from different states and argued over calls.
Emma rarely joined.
But she listened.
In December, a package arrived at Hank’s house.
Inside was a drawing.
A black motorcycle drove through snow.
Three stick figures followed in a car.
At the bottom Eli had written:
FIRST PART OF THE BIG RIDE.
Hank framed it.
He placed it above the kitchen table.
Then removed it.
Daniel would have mocked the frame.
He put it in the garage instead.
Christmas came.
Hank mailed Eli a model motorcycle kit.
Emma mailed it back.
Not because she objected to the gift.
Because it was labeled for ages fourteen and up and contained twenty-seven tiny parts Eli immediately tried to swallow accidentally while opening the package.
Hank called.
“You sent it back?”
“He’s eight.”
“It builds character.”
“Choking builds emergency-room bills.”
“Fair.”
“You can buy him something age appropriate.”
Hank went shopping.
He returned with an art set large enough for a college studio.
Emma called again.
“Hank.”
“What?”
“There are seventy-two pencils.”
“He likes drawing.”
“He is one child.”
“Future proofing.”
She laughed.
That sound mattered.
January became February.
In March, Hank mailed Emma a check.
She returned it.
He mailed another.
She returned that too.
Finally she called.
“Stop.”
“It’s for Eli.”
“No.”
“School costs money.”
“I know.”
“Shoes cost money.”
“I know.”
“You’re doing this alone.”
“No. I have Claire.”
“You know what I mean.”
Emma sighed.
“Hank, you don’t get to replace eight years with checks.”
He went quiet.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He had no answer.
Emma softened.
“I know you want to help.”
“I do.”
“Then call him.”
“I call.”
“Keep calling.”
“Okay.”
“Visit.”
Hank stopped.
“Visit?”
“Yes.”
“You said…”
“I said I wasn’t rearranging our lives around your guilt.”
“That isn’t the same thing as banning you from Ohio.”
Hank sat straighter.
“When?”
Emma laughed.
“You’re asking like I invited you for dinner tonight.”
“I can be there tomorrow.”
“You absolutely cannot.”
“Day after?”
“Hank.”
“Next weekend?”
She paused.