“I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Then don’t think of it as bothering me.”
Mr. Henry smiled with a gentle sadness, like someone had opened a window in a room that had been closed for years.
From then on, every Sunday, Caleb stopped by for a list written in shaky handwriting: milk, eggs, rice, beans, wheat bread, apples, and sometimes a little box of vanilla cookies. At first, Mr. Henry insisted on paying him for gas.
“I’m not a charity case, Caleb.”
“And I’m not here to charge you, Mr. Henry. I’m already going anyway.”
Over the years, the ritual became part of life. Caleb married Hannah. She baked cinnamon rolls, cookies, or orange pound cake and always saved a piece.
“Take this to your friend,” she would say.
Mr. Henry asked about her, about Caleb’s work, and whether they might have children someday. Sometimes he talked about Margaret. He almost never talked about his family.
He only mentioned one nephew: Evan.
