“What did he say?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters.”
“It matters less than Eli hitting him.”
Hank looked at Daniel’s drawing.
“Is he there?”
“Yes.”
“Put him on.”
Emma hesitated.
“Hank.”
“I’m not going to congratulate him.”
“Good.”
Eli came onto the phone.
“Hi.”
“You punch somebody?”
“Yes.”
“Good punch?”
Silence.
“Hank.”
Emma’s warning came from the background.
“What? I need diagnostic information.”
“Grandpa.”
Eli almost laughed.
Hank became serious.
“Listen to me.”
“Okay.”
“Your dad was strong.”
“I know.”
“He also spent half his life learning that anger makes you stupid if you let it drive.”
Eli said nothing.
“You’re allowed to be angry when people say ugly things.”
“Mom said.”
“You’re allowed to walk away.”
“He laughed.”
“You’re allowed to tell a teacher.”
“He called me a baby.”
Hank understood.
“Still can’t hit him.”
“He said Dad didn’t want me because Dad’s dead.”
Hank closed his eyes.
There it was.
He took a slow breath.
“What you do next time is look at him.”
“Then what?”
“You tell him your father loved you.”
Eli was quiet.
“Then you leave.”
“What if he laughs?”
“Let him.”
“That’s weak.”
“No.”
Hank’s voice hardened.
“Hitting somebody because they control your emotions is weak.”
Eli listened.
“Walking away when you could hit them is hard.”
“Did Dad do that?”
Hank looked at the garage wall.
“Eventually.”
“What about you?”
Hank laughed once.
“I’m still learning.”
By the time Eli returned to school, Hank had mailed him a handwritten letter.
Not money.
Not a gift.
A letter.
Emma called after Eli went to bed.
“He put it under his pillow.”
Hank stared at the ceiling.
“Okay.”
“He said Daniel used to leave notes in his lunch.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Then Emma asked, “Do you want to know something strange?”
“Yes.”
“You’re starting to sound like him.”
“Daniel?”
“Yes.”
Hank smiled.
“He sounded like me first.”
“No.”
She laughed.
“He really didn’t.”
Two years passed.
Then three.
The distance between Ohio and Hank’s home became a road instead of a wall.
Hank visited.
Emma visited with Eli.
Summer weekends became longer stays.
At eleven, Eli was tall enough for his feet to reach the passenger pegs on Hank’s motorcycle.
Emma still said no.
Hank did not argue.
At twelve, she said maybe.
At thirteen, she inspected the helmet herself.
Hank waited beside the bike.
Eli stood trembling with excitement.
Emma tightened the strap beneath her son’s chin.
“You stay behind him.”
“Yes.”
“You do not lean away from the turn.”
“I know.”
“You hold the passenger grips.”
“I know.”
“No showing off.”
Eli looked at Hank.
“I know.”