Second Dad Summer

by Benjamin Klas

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  Dad smiled. “Hospitals are always sterile. He probably needs some things from home.” Dad looked around the apartment like an eagle. He swooped down to pick up a plant from the windowsill and a paperback novel with a bookmark half through it. He went over to the couch, gathering the old quilt in his arms.

  I saw a picture in a gold frame on the coffee table. What looked like a much younger Mr. Keeler stood next to a man with long, blond hair. They were smiling. Mr. Keeler’s face looked a lot different with the smile. He looked ready to tell a joke, ready to laugh.

  “I think we should bring this, too.” I said, picking up the photo.

  Dad nodded and said we had enough now. We took the things down to his truck and drove to Riverside Hospital.

  When we got to Mr. Keeler’s room, a nurse let us in. Mr. Keeler was lying on a large bed that somehow made him look small. Tubes and wires came out of him. His breathing was shallow. His eyes turned to watch us come into the room, but his head didn’t move.

  “Hi, Mr. Keeler,” Dad said, his voice sounding unusually loud in the heavy silence of the room. “How are you feeling?”

  Mr. Keeler huffed. “How do you think I feel?” he asked.

  I held up the quilt. “We brought you a few things,” I said. Dad helped me lay the blanket over his legs.

  “What did you do? Break into my apartment?” Mr. Keeler asked.

  Dad smiled. “We sure did.”

  Dad put the plant on the windowsill and held out the book to Mr. Keeler, who half raised an arm, pointing to the tray next to him. Dad set it down.

  I set the photo on Mr. Keeler’s bedside table.

  Mr. Keeler turned his eyes to stare at it for a long time.

  “Need us to call anyone?” Dad asked. “Family or friends or anyone?”

  Mr. Keeler let out a laugh that sounded like a cough. “I don’t have anyone left. I outlasted everyone else.”

  “We’re here,” Dad said.

  Mr. Keeler looked up at the ceiling. “My sister is flying up from Albuquerque.”

  “Good,” Dad said.

  “She’s a witch.” Mr. Keeler laid back and closed his eyes.

  We sat for a while in silence before Dad picked up the book and began to read out loud. It was a Stephen King novel. The bookmark opened to a particularly grisly chapter, but Dad plowed forward, occasionally wincing, looking at me apologetically.

  The nurse came in. “What are you gentlemen talking about in here?”

  Dad held up the book, his face turning slightly pink.

  “Mr. Keeler,” the nurse said past us, “I think you’re going to have to end your bedtime story there.” She turned back to us. “Visiting hours are over.”

  We had spent the entire afternoon.

  “Bye,” I said.

  Dad saluted. “Pleasant dreams, Sir,” he said.

  Mr. Keeler snorted. “Yeah,” he said.

  We drove home in silence. After Dad parked the truck, we walked up to our building. Dark patches of plastic still showed through the places Sage and I had scratched free of rocks.

  “Dad,” I said. “We need to plant the garden.”

  Dad nodded, his eyebrows going up. “Well,” he said, “I know just the place to pick up a few plants.”

  We drove down Lyndale, probably to the same place Michael was talking about.

  When we walked into the greenhouse, I recognized the employee at once. It was Robi, Dad and Michael’s friend from Cocktail Hour.

  Robi smiled and walked over to us. “How can I help you gentlemen?” Robi asked.

  Dad turned to me. “Do you know what you want?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know exactly what I want.”

  I picked out eight large daylilies. The tags showed they would be a fiery orange when they bloomed. Several of them had buds stretching up above their grassy leaves.

  Robi made sure we didn’t leave without two bags of manure to work into the soil.

  Dad made us stop for tacos on the way back to our apartment. I hadn’t realized I was so hungry.

  By the time we came back to our building, the streetlights had come on.

  Dad pulled a shovel from the back of his truck. We dug the hard earth, breaking up the pieces. We removed some of the old soil, replacing it with the rich manure, working it together.

  Mosquitos came out. The moon rose over downtown. When all eight holes were dug, we removed the first daylily from its plastic pot.

  “These plants get root-bound,” I said, pointing to the tangled mass of white roots that still kept the shape of the pot. “I read that you have to break the roots to stimulate new growth. If you don’t break them up, they won’t stretch out into the earth around them.”

  Even though I knew I needed to, it felt wrong to break apart the roots which clung so tightly to the soil they had known for so long.

  As we patted the dirt around the fourth plant, Michael came riding up on the Uni-cycle. He leaned it against the stoop and came over to help even though he was still in his work uniform. He didn’t say anything about the plants being an invasive species.

  “This garden was supposed to be for Mr. Keeler,” I said.

  “I know,” Michael said. “Let’s hope he can get back here to see it.”

  Together, we finished planting. Dad went upstairs and brought down a large pitcher. One by one, we watered in the plants. Then I watered each of Mr. Keeler’s Potentilla Fruticosa which didn’t look quite so alone anymore. I looked at the lily buds stretching up towards the sky. They would bloom soon.

  “They’ll be perfect,” Michael said. “They were the right selection, Jeremiah.”

  Chapter

  16

  It was a windy morning. On the way back from church, Dad said a new weather system was blowing through. Life should be a little easier. Or at least cooler.

  I sat in front on the stoop as Dad and Michael went upstairs, talking about the morning sermon.

  Soon enough, Sage came out. She called a hello, but then her face fell.

  “You planted the garden,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said, feeling a smile break across my face. “Last night. Dad and me. And Michael.”

  “I thought,” her voice sounded hurt, “I thought we were going to plant the garden.”

  I looked at her, not quite sure what to do or say. Really? She was upset that the garden was planted?

  “I helped clear rocks,” she said. “I sat out in the horrible heat and dug through the rocks and scraped up my fingers.” She held up her hand as proof.

  I was annoyed. Maybe it was just the stress of the last couple of days. Maybe it was something else. I felt like if anyone had a right to be upset, it was me. I had a friend in the hospital.

  “So what?” I said. “Are you really going to cry about it?”

  Sage stared hard at me, then turned, storming toward her building. “Maybe,” she yelled. “Maybe I am.”

  I sat for a long time until my breathing leveled out. Then I went upstairs for a pitcher. I brought it down and watered the plants.

  I didn’t see Sage Monday morning. I wondered if she was still mad about the garden. Maybe she was avoiding me. Part of me wanted to walk up to her building and buzz her apartment, but the stubborn part won out and I didn’t.

  That afternoon, Michael and I visited Mr. Keeler. He had been transferred to a new room. I noticed that all of the things Dad and I brought for him had been transferred as well. The picture now sat on Mr. Keeler’s tray next to his bed.

  The nurse said he was still experiencing some complications. He would have to stay until they got everything sorted out.

  We sat with him. Michael tried to make small talk, which Mr. Keeler continually shot down.

  I thought about telling him we had planted the daylil
ies, but I held off. It would be a better surprise for him to come home to them already planted, hopefully blooming.

  Finally, we said our goodbyes and headed home.

  On the bus back to the apartment, I told Michael about what happened with Sage and her outburst over the planted garden.

  “You know, you could go over there and tell her you’re sorry,” Michael said.

  “Why?” I said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Well,” Michael said. “You can waste a lot of time being stubborn.”

  It was true. I could.

  The next morning, I walked down the stairs out of habit, not thinking about the fact that Sage and I were fighting. Weren’t we? But there she was, walking through the garden, touching each of the buds, which were turning fat and orange.

  She looked up at me. “Sorry,” she said before I could say anything.

  I swallowed my pride. “I’m sorry, too. I just got kind of caught up. I wanted the garden to be complete for Mr. Keeler.”

  “Is he going to die?” Sage asked it so directly I just stared at her for a minute.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Sage looked out over the garden. “You did the right thing. I was just so bummed. There were flowers at my old house, but I never got to plant any.”

  I suddenly felt sorry for Sage, not being able to be a part of planting. “I have an idea.” I said. “What if we went and got a few annuals? The daylilies will spread and fill the gaps next year, but this year, they need some company.”

  It was true. I know the plants needed us to dig up those big circles, but the wide band of earth around each plant looked as empty and sad as the rocks.

  Sage’s eyes lit up. “We could do that?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I think you should pick them out.”

  We went upstairs to tell Michael that we needed to go back out to the greenhouse.

  “I could come along,” he offered. “I have a basket on the Uni-cycle so we could bring the plants home.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. We could do it on our bicycles. But I still didn’t want to be seen with the Uni-cycle.

  We decided to take the bus, and Michael insisted on joining us. He said he didn’t mind us riding around the neighborhood, but he thought adult supervision was necessary when it came to public transit. Whatever.

  Once Sage got the okay from Reina, we took the 4 down Lyndale. Robi was working again.

  When Sage met Robi, she stared for a moment, then asked, “What pronouns do you use?”

  Robi looked impressed. “I appreciate you asking. I prefer they, theirs, them.”

  Sage nodded. “Robi,” she said, “We need flowers. The pinkest flowers you have.”

  Why had I promised Sage she could pick the flowers? She chose a tray of magenta petunias. Of course.

  On the way back, Sage smiled down at her plants. “I like Robi. They understood exactly what I needed.”

  “How did you know to ask about pronouns?” I asked Sage.

  “Robi looked like they might like other pronouns,” Sage said. “But you can’t really tell by looking. I always try to ask whenever I remember. Speaking of which, what pronouns do you use?”

  “He and him, I guess,” I said. I had never really thought about it.

  “I try to ask, too,” Michael said. “There is a large spectrum of gender expression and a deep pool of pronouns to choose from.”

  “A pool,” Sage said. “I like that. A pool of pronouns. Like you could dive in and swim around until you found the right ones, your pronouns.”

  “Which ones would you pick?” I asked.

  She considered. “Well, maybe she and her, but I would find the ones that bobbed up to the surface no matter how many times you dunked them. Or maybe a giant inflated HERS you could bat back and forth like a beach ball.” She turned to me. “I’m guessing you would probably dig your pronouns out of the ground,” she said to me. “Not find them in a pool.”

  “And you,” I said to Michael, “would find them in the produce section of Real Foods.”

  “Please,” Michael said. “I gathered my he, him, his from the glittering dust of a unicorn.”

  Sage squealed, and even I couldn’t help laughing.

  When we got back to our building, we planted a perimeter of petunias in the soft earth around each daylily, keeping them as close to the stones as possible. Reina came out to help. With Reina, Michael, Sage and me all working, it wasn’t long before the pink flowers were in.

  As we used pitchers to water the flowers, Sage was practically glowing. “Now this is a garden. It’s just not happy without pink.”

  “Indeed,” Michael smiled. I realized I was smiling, too.

  Chapter

  17

  Michael started painting the bathroom. The song “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” echoed in the small room.

  When the first coat of paint was done, I asked if we could visit Mr. Keeler again. Michael changed out of his painting clothes.

  As we walked down to the bus, he told me we could paint my room next.

  “You can pick any color you want,” he said. “Except peach. And you’ll have to help me.”

  “Okay.” As we boarded the bus to the hospital, I was surprised at myself. It no longer sounded like a horrible thing to work on a project with Michael. When had that changed?

  When we got to Mr. Keeler’s room, the back of his bed was raised so he was in a half-upright position, his old quilt draped over his legs.

  “You look chipper,” Michael said.

  Mr. Keeler grunted.

  “Are you comfortable?” Michael asked.

  Mr. Keeler huffed. “Do I look comfortable?”

  “You let us know if you need anything,” Michael said, his voice firmly even.

  Mr. Keeler wheezed. “The thing I could really use is a cigarette.”

  Michael sighed, then stood up. He stepped out of the room. Through the glass, I could see him beckoning to a nurse. They leaned towards each other to talk too quietly for us to hear.

  “I can hear you,” Mr. Keeler half rose as he called to them. Then he fell back into bed. “They think I’ll die. But I’ll fight. Life is a fight.” He took several long, wheezing breaths, then looked at me, “Remember that.”

  I sat by his bed. He lay back, his eyes half open.

  Michael came back into the room. “Will you be okay here for a few minutes?” he asked me.

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  He left. I looked back at Mr. Keeler. I didn’t know what to say to him. I looked around the room, then settled on the picture.

  “Mr. Keeler?” I asked. He opened his eyes. I took a deep breath. “Who’s in that picture?”

  Mr. Keeler’s eyes rested on the gold frame. “Charlie,” he said. “He was my partner.”

  “Is he…” I hesitated. “Did he—”

  “Die?” Mr. Keeler cut in. “April 8, 2007.”

  “I’m sorry.” I said.

  “We were the last ones,” he said. “Our building,” he paused to take several breaths. Finally, Mr. Keeler went on. “It was full of us. So many died in the ’80s. AIDS. But Charlie and I. We survived. We stayed.”

  He looked at me. “Now it’s all gone.” He began to cough.

  I watched him regain his breath. I hesitated, then decided to just go ahead and tell him. It felt like he needed to hear something good.

  “We made a garden in front of our building,” I said. “It has daylilies. Just like it used to.” I decided to leave out Sage’s magenta petunias.

  “And the Potentilla Fruticosa?” Mr. Keeler’s eyes narrowed at me.

  “They’re there. But they’re not so alone now. It’s not super impressive, but everything will grow. There will be more next year.”

  “Don’t forget to water i
t,” he said. I thought I saw the faintest hint of a smile on his face. He lay back, breathing heavily.

  “You’ll see it soon,” I told him, although I was beginning to fear he wouldn’t.

  We sat in silence until Michael returned, his face slightly pink. He held out a package of cigarettes. Mr. Keeler lifted a shaky hand to receive them.

  “Filters?” he said. “We’re past the need for filters.”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Mr. Keeler—”

  “Get me outside,” Mr. Keeler interrupted. “I need one.”

  The nurse helped us move Mr. Keeler into a wheelchair. His IV hung above him like his own personal rain cloud. I wondered what Sage would name it. We took the elevator down several floors until we could wheel outside into the late July sunshine.

  Mr. Keeler fumbled for a while, trying to open the pack. Michael held out his hand, but Mr. Keeler handed the cigarettes to me. I peeled off the shiny wrapper. I had never held a pack of cigarettes before. My fingers felt nervous being watched by both of them, but I fished one out of the foil liner easily enough.

  Michael lit the cigarette and handed it to Mr. Keeler. Mr. Keeler’s hands were shaking too much to hold it. It fell to the ground. Michael carefully put it out and tossed it into a bucket of sand with a bunch of cigarette butts.

  The same thing happened to the next cigarette.

  Michael stood over Mr. Keeler and sighed. Then he squatted next to Mr. Keeler, took another cigarette, lit it, and held it out to Mr. Keeler’s mouth.

  I expected Mr. Keeler to turn away. Instead, he leaned in, curled his lips around the end of the cigarette, and breathed deep. His eyes closed, his head tilted back, he smiled. He opened his mouth, letting the smoke escape over his face.

  “Stay over there, Jeremiah,” Michael commanded. “I don’t want you getting any of this second-hand smoke.”

  It was weird watching the two of them, enemies, connected by a cigarette, something Michael hated about Mr. Keeler. Each draw on the cigarette, they moved close for an instant, connected, then pulled back.

  When Mr. Keeler had exhausted the cigarette, Michael ground the tip on the sidewalk. He held it for a moment, Mr. Keeler watching through the slits of his eyes. Michael rolled the butt of the cigarette between his fingers, then flicked it onto the sidewalk, an almost perfect impression of Mr. Keeler.