Second Dad Summer

by Benjamin Klas

  Michael forced a smile. “Would you like a glass of prune juice?”

  “I could use a scotch on the rocks.”

  Michael walked forward, sliding his business card on the table. “Well, call if you need anything.”

  Mr. Keeler picked up the card and tossed it at the garbage can. It missed.

  Michael rolled his eyes, then finished unpacking the groceries.

  “Get some rest,” Michael said.

  Mr. Keeler gave a short laugh. “Rest? I can’t do anything besides rest. Now get out.”

  I followed Michael into the hall.

  “And that,” said Michael through clenched teeth, “is why I can’t stand Mr. Keeler.”

  We had just bought this man groceries and he did nothing besides insult Michael. And I could only guess it was the same way for Michael before.

  I didn’t get it. “Why do you help him, then?”

  Michael laughed drily. “Perhaps I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  Chapter

  13

  Sage and I rode to the library again. I was more thankful than ever for the air-conditioning there. A librarian helped me locate several new books on gardening. As Sage did her usual ritual of reading odd pages from a tall stack of books, I read tips on starting a garden. I had maintained gardens, but starting them was new to me. Soon, I had a clear vision of what needed to happen.

  It was going to be more work than I had originally thought. I had the idea that it would just require clearing away a few rocks and slipping some daylilies into the ground. This book said I should be clearing and aerating a spot at least twice the diameter of the plant’s pot. That didn’t sound too bad until I realized that twice the diameter meant a spot over four times as big. If I wanted to plant a good-sized eight inch pot, it was going to need space the size of a trash can lid. For each plant.

  The next morning, I led the way down the stairs, Michael bobbing along behind. Sage joined us on the stoop. The morning sun was already bright and hot.

  I gave orders, explaining and outlining the eight places where we would strip away the rocks and plastic to make way for the daylilies. To my surprise, Michael stood by what he said: I was in charge.

  I marked where each of the eight plants would go, and then we started. Sage and I worked side by side, scraping rocks out of the way. The rocks were jagged. They seemed to want to stay settled.

  After a while, Sage went into her apartment and brought out two trowels. They weren’t much help. Their blades caught between the rocks and sounded like someone’s nails on a chalkboard. We went back to using our hands.

  Michael worked on clearing the patch next to ours. The way he squatted, I assumed he was probably trying to keep his jeans clean. He plucked and picked out the rocks, taking tiny careful little handfuls and tossing them aside.

  As our clear circles grew, I realized we hadn’t been tossing our rocks far enough away, and we had to move a lot of them a second time to get the full 16 inch diameter. At last, we had a full circle of black plastic. I pulled out my pocket knife and cut away the plastic. The earth beneath was hard, packed down for years, unable to breathe. We joined Michael until his patch was cleared as well.

  The circles of earth looked naked. But it wasn’t an emptiness like the rocks. It was more like a blank canvas.

  “Two down, six to go,” Michael said.

  Sage knelt down, resting her hand on the newly exposed earth. “It feels so hopeful,” she said.

  “It feels sweaty more than hopeful at this point,” I said. The sun was climbing in the sky. When I said we’d done enough for the day, Michael looked relieved and went upstairs to clean up.

  Sage and I rinsed away the dirt and dust under the spigot, then walked across the street to the park. We laid back on the grass in the shade of a large oak tree. I told her about me and Michael buying groceries for Mr. Keeler.

  “But Michael says that he can’t stand Mr. Keeler,” I finished.

  Sage squinted up at the sky. “Maybe he actually likes Mr. Keeler a little. Not like romantic or anything. But, like maybe a father-figure or something?”

  “Weird.” I pulled a handful of grass and tossed it into the air. There was no breeze to carry it.

  “Think about it,” she said. “It might just be a little bit. But he buys Mr. Keeler groceries. And he’s doing this garden for him.”

  I was about to say that he wasn’t. That in fact, he was doing it for me, but the reality of that made me feel uncomfortable. Instead, I explained the whole mess of saying “we” to Michael and how Michael had been trying to do projects with me all summer.

  “And you’re sure you hate Michael?” Sage asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “At least, I was sure. And I don’t like changing my mind.”

  For the next several days, I avoided working in the garden. The heat and humidity gave me an easy out. Sage and I spent days at the library, soaking in the air conditioning.

  At night, it would cool just enough for Dad and me to go out. We watched a movie in the park across the street. We went on another sweaty ride down the Greenway, passing the place where Dad and Michael met. We continued on the Greenway down to the Lake of the Isles. It didn’t have beaches like Lake Bde Maka Ska, but it had a lot of trees that cast cool shade over the bike trail.

  We parked our bikes and sat in a pool of shade.

  “How’s that garden shaping up?” Dad asked.

  “We’re taking it easy this week,” I said. “Heat wave and all.”

  “You like working with Michael?” Dad’s voice was level as he said this, but I could hear the edge of hope to it.

  “It’s okay.” I picked up a rock and tossed it into the lake.

  “You know…” His voice was hesitant like someone testing the water, poking their toe into a swimming pool. “What do you think about Michael? We kind of talked about it the other day, but not much.”

  I took a deep breath. I wanted to say that Michael was too much. I wanted to say that it drove me nuts how he was always giving little bits of parental advice. I hated his calendar of things for us to do and his organic food obsession. What finally came out was, “He rides a bike covered in glitter. With a unicorn head on it.”

  A smile twitched over dad’s lips. “He does.”

  “It’s so bright,” I said, even though it wasn’t exactly what bothered me about it.

  Dad turned at me. “Has Michael ever talked to you about Sam?”

  I shook my head, not understanding how this would relate to the Uni-cycle. I was frustrated that I hadn’t actually said what I meant, how annoyed I get by Michael.

  “It’s a sad story,” Dad said. He paused like he was waiting for the story to line itself up. “Sam was Michael’s first boyfriend. Michael was still in the closet to just about everyone else. Sam was out and proud. One night at a bar, some guys asked if they were gay. Michael said no, but Sam said yes. The two of them had an argument about it. Michael went home. Sam never did.”

  I looked out over the water. “What happened?” I asked.

  Dad took a deep breath and continued, “The best they know, Sam got beat pretty bad. Maybe it was those guys at the bar, maybe not. Either way, they didn’t find him until the next morning. He didn’t make it.”

  “Oh.”

  “You mentioned that crazy bike,” Dad continued. “It was something Michael made for the first time he was in a Pride parade. He said he had to make a big statement. For Sam.”

  I tried to imagine Michael closeted, pretending that he was straight. And now he wore rainbows, highlighted his hair and rode unicorns.

  “I’m not telling you this so you feel sorry for Michael, or accept him, or even like him.” Dad’s voice was steady, like the breeze coming over the water. “But I do want you to understand him just a little bit more.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I meant it
.

  Chapter

  14

  I snuck out of the apartment, leaving Michael to wash more walls. I walked down the stairs and sat on the stoop in the morning sunlight. I looked down at the Potentilla Fruticosa and the two circles of earth that we had uncovered. I went back to the rocks and started clearing the next circle. Before long, Sage sat beside me, helping me.

  “I can’t wait until we can plant some flowers in here,” she said. “I’m dying to see a little beauty around here.” She looked guiltily at the Potentilla Fruticosa. “Not that you’re not beautiful,” she added to them, as if the bushes had feelings.

  “I don’t really know why we’re doing this,” I said. Back when I first got the idea for the garden, I had visions of working rich soil, and cultivating growth, not rummaging around in dry rocks in the heavy heat.

  “What do you mean?”

  I stopped, looking down at my sore, dirty fingers. “Mr. Keeler will probably just say that we picked the wrong kind of daylily or that it’s stupid or something.”

  “He wouldn’t say it was stupid,” Sage said. “But he’s Mr. Keeler, so he probably will say something grouchy.”

  I knew what she meant. He just wasn’t the type of person who admitted to liking stuff.

  Sage looked at the bushes again. “Where has Mr. Keeler been, anyway?”

  I shrugged. “He’s probably avoiding the heat like the rest of us should be doing.”

  “Even if he doesn’t like the flowers we pick,” she said, “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

  “Sure,” I said. But I wanted him to like the flowers. I wanted him to see the daylilies blooming in an orange blaze again.

  We cleared two more spots. There were only four left to go. It was slower without Michael, but I wanted space from him. I was still thinking about him and Sam and the Uni-cycle.

  Later that day, though, when Michael invited me to go grocery shopping for Mr. Keeler again, I said yes. Since Mr. Keeler hadn’t been out to water the bushes, I assumed he still wasn’t up for walking to the corner store.

  As we walked down the front steps we passed the garden. “You know,” Michael said, “we could just hop on the 4. There’s a garden center down Lyndale where we could pick up whatever you were going to plant.”

  “Daylilies,” I said.

  Michael pursed his lips. I could tell he was trying not to say anything, but sure enough, he couldn’t hold it in. “Are you sure?” Michael said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Ecologically, it might be beneficial to think about getting some native species.”

  I stared hard at Michael. “We’re going to plant daylilies.”

  Michael sighed. “Well,” he said, “you’re the man in charge.”

  My phone rang. It was Mom calling to tell me her tomatoes were in bloom.

  “I just had to call,” she said. “They have these little yellow flowers on them. I thought you’d be proud. Heck, I’m proud. I feel like my little baby plants just learned to walk or something.”

  “That’s great,” I said, feeling worse about the fact that I hadn’t finished the garden over here.

  After I hung up, Michael and I walked in silence until we reached Real Foods. Michael pulled things from the shelves, dropping them into his basket. It was much of the same stuff as before: soups, fresh fruit, prunes.

  Nissy was at the checkout again. “Are you and Michael best friends yet?”

  I looked over at Michael loading the groceries. “Not quite,” I said.

  Nissy laughed. She scanned the two boxes of prunes. “Well, at least you two will stay regular.”

  Michael rolled his eyes, but laughed a little as he snatched the prunes from her. “Thank you, Nissy.” he said.

  As we turned onto Stevens Ave, I asked Michael why he was doing all of this for Mr. Keeler.

  Michael sighed as we opened the door to our building. “As we say, ‘He’s family.’”

  “What do you mean?” I remembered what Sage said about Michael viewing Mr. Keeler as a father-figure, but I didn’t think that’s what Michael meant. We walked up the stairs to Mr. Keeler’s floor.

  “One day,” said Michael, “I am going to be an old queen barking out my own orders. And I hope someone will buy me groceries every now and then.”

  Michael rapped on Mr. Keeler’s door. “Mr. Keeler, it’s us. Groceries!”

  There was no answer.

  He knocked again.

  He tried the door knob. It was unlocked. Michael poked his head into the room. “Hello? Mr. Keeler?”

  Michael opened the door all the way and stepped into the apartment. I followed him.

  Michael gasped. His body froze.

  I followed the line of his eyes. Mr. Keeler was lying on the floor of the apartment, not moving.

  Michael dropped his bag of groceries and ran over to him. “Please, please be breathing,” he begged. I put down my bag of groceries to help him roll Mr. Keeler onto his back. His skin was still warm.

  Michael watched Mr. Keeler’s thin chest rise and fall as he took out his cellphone and dialed.

  “Yes,” he said. “This is an emergency. I’m with a man who has lost consciousness. He is still breathing…”

  As Michael carried on the conversation, I looked at Mr. Keeler. I squatted next to him and put my hand on his forehead. I don’t know why but I saw it on TV.

  Michael kept rattling things into the phone. I sat staring at Mr. Keeler, his chest rising and falling. Time seemed to freeze.

  Suddenly, paramedics stormed into the apartment, lifting him onto a stretcher, pulling him down the hall.

  Michael began looking desperately around. “Wallet, wallet, wallet,” he said. I got up to help him look. I found it in a bowl near the door. Michael opened it. “ID and insurance.”

  He looked up at me. “I’ll call you,” he said, hurrying after the paramedics.

  I stood for several minutes in the empty apartment, trying to process what had just happened. Finally, I saw the groceries. I unloaded them into Mr. Keeler’s fridge, folding the bags carefully.

  I stepped out into the hall and closed his door tightly, wondering if I should have looked for his keys to lock it. I walked slowly up the stairs. I sat on the couch, staring at the park across the street. I held my phone in my hand.

  Before long, I started getting text updates.

  At the Hospital

  Getting an IV

  Gained consciousness

  Michael came home a few hours later. His face looked serious.

  “Mr. Keeler had a stroke,” he said. “The doctors say his heart is a mess. They are trying to stabilize him, but it’s not looking good.”

  I just nodded.

  “He’s just getting old, Jeremiah,” Michael said. “And frankly, his health is a mess. Smoking two packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day hasn’t done him any favors, either.” He reached out a hand to my shoulder.

  “Yeah,” I said. I really had no idea what I was supposed to be feeling. I felt stunned, kind of frozen. It’s not like I had known Mr. Keeler for a long time, so I hadn’t earned the right to freak out about this had I?

  I stood up and started to the door.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Michael called to me.

  “No,” I said. I walked down the stairs, down to the stoop. I sat on the concrete steps, looking at the Potentilla Fruticosa bushes in their dry, stone beds. I needed to do something, anything.

  I stared at the rocky garden, remembering what Mr. Keeler had told me. It used to have daylilies. It looked like the whole bed was on fire in August when they bloomed. I pictured where the flowers could be filling the large, rocky gaps.

  I knelt down on the rocks, clearing patches, pushing the rough stones to the side to try to find the rich dirt beneath. The pain in my fingers cleared my h
ead.

  “You should have told me you were working.”

  I jumped. Sage stood behind me, a popsicle in her hand. She was as pink and frizzy as ever.

  “Mr. Keeler had a stroke,” I said, my voice cracking.

  “Oh,” said Sage as though that explained why I was clawing at the rocks. She sat down on the steps. “My grandma had a stroke.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “What happened?”

  Sage looked up towards the clouds. “There were complications. She didn’t make it.” She looked down at me, her voice consoling. “But I bet he will. That old man’s a fighter.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He is.”

  I went and sat next to her.

  “Wait here.” Sage stood up and darted into her building. She returned a few moments later with another popsicle and handed it to me.

  “Is he in the hospital now?” she asked.

  I nodded. I made myself eat the popsicle. “They say that he’s a mess.”

  “That sounds like Mr. Keeler alright,” said Sage.

  We finished our popsicles.

  I knelt down on the rocks and went back to work. Sage sat beside me. As the streetlights came on, we cleared large circles until the black plastic showed through. One by one until the last spot was open.

  “All eight are finished,” I said.

  “Not finished,” Sage said. “They’re started.”

  Chapter

  15

  The next morning, I felt agitated. I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. I finally settled on staring at the bright colors of Saturday morning cartoons. Dad joined me after a while. Soon, Michael had to leave for his weekend shift.

  After we ate lunch, Dad suggested we go visit Mr. Keeler. We changed into church clothes. On the way down the stairs, Dad stopped at the second floor. He turned down the hall towards Mr. Keeler’s apartment.

  “Let’s pick up a few things,” he said. He walked up to the door and opened it boldly. I followed him inside. It felt weird to be in here without Mr. Keeler. I had done it yesterday as I put away the groceries, but now it felt like breaking and entering.