Caleb Morgan did not answer right away. He was forty years old, his black shirt wrinkled from the summer heat in Chicago, his eyes red from trying not to break down. He had not come to Mr. Henry’s funeral to fight with anyone. He had come to say goodbye to the man who, for twelve years, had waited for him every Sunday with hot coffee, sweet rolls, and an empty chair beside the window.
It had begun when Caleb was twenty-eight and had just moved onto that quiet street, thinking he would only stay for a couple of years. One Sunday morning, while taking out the trash, he saw Mr. Henry struggling to lift grocery bags from the trunk of an old sedan. One bag split open, tomatoes rolled across the sidewalk, and the old man tried to bend down with one hand pressed against his back.
Caleb crossed the street without thinking.
“Let me help you, sir.”
“No need, son. I can still do it.”
“You can, but you don’t have to do it by yourself.”
He carried the bags inside. The house smelled like old wood, instant coffee, and medicine. Mr. Henry asked him to sit for “just five minutes.” Those five minutes became almost an hour. He talked about his wife, Margaret, who had passed years earlier, about the neighborhood before all the new buildings went up, about kids playing ball in the street without anyone worrying.
As Caleb was leaving, he said:
“When you need groceries, let me know. I go to the market on Sundays.”
