I could see you were in a hurry. I was, Marcus agreed. Still am, but I didn't help you so I could get paid for it. He pulled his keys from his pocket. Maybe someday someone will help me when I need it, too.
He said it simply, not like a philosophy. Not like something he'd rehearsed, just the way you'd state a plain fact about the weather. Henry's hand lowered slowly. He looked at Marcus the way a man looks at something he didn't expect to find. The way you look at a tool in an old drawer that turns out to be exactly what you needed.
Take care of yourself, Henry, Marcus said. He got in his truck. He drove away. I made it to Mrs. Patterson's afterchool program with 3 minutes to spare. And Lily launched herself at him the way she always did, like he was the shore and she was the wave.
Like the whole world made sense again the second she found him standing there. "Your wet, daddy," she announced. "Yeah." He lifted her up rain and all. I am. What happened?
Help somebody load some stuff. She leaned back and studied his face with those serious brown eyes she'd inherited from her mother. eyes that seemed to weigh things before deciding what to do with them. "Was it heavy?" she asked. "Pretty heavy." "Did they say thank you?" Marcus thought about Henry's face, the wallet, the expression behind the eyes when Marcus turned down the money in their own way, he said. Marcus Williams had been raising Lily alone for 4 years.
4 years? 2 months. And if you asked him on a hard night about 11 days, I didn't say this to anyone. Didn't wear his loss like a badge. But in the way that grief works on a man who was raised to keep going, it lived in the specific details.
The way he still made two cups of coffee every morning before catching himself. The way he'd learned to braid hair from a YouTube tutorial at midnight because he refused to let Lily go to school feeling like something was missing. The way he kept Clare's old cardigan on the hook by the back door, even now, because the mornings he accidentally touched it on his way out were somehow easier than the mornings he didn't. Clare Williams had been the kind of woman who made a room feel settled just by walking into it. Not loud, not showy, just present in a way that you only noticed fully when she was gone.
She'd taught third grade at Cedar Falls Elementary, laughed at her own jokes before she finished telling them, and had an opinion about everything from the proper way to make cornbread to the proper way to treat people, which in her view were essentially the same principle. You start with what you have. You don't skip steps and you give it everything you've got because whoever's eating it deserves your whole effort. She died 38 days after her diagnosis, pancreatic cancer. The doctors had talked about treatments and timelines, and Marcus had sat in every chair in every waiting room and listened to everything they said, and none of it had prepared him for how fast the whole thing moved, or how quiet the house became the morning after.
Lily had been 5 years old. She was nine now, and she was without question the most ferocious little human being Marcus had ever encountered in his life. She read books she wasn't supposed to understand yet, and understood them anyway. She corrected his spelling on grocery lists. She had opinions about architecture, real opinions, specific ones.
And Marcus sometimes wondered if she'd been an engineer in another life. He told her about the equipment yard that evening over dinner. Not the whole thing, just the broad strokes. So, you helped some old man load his truck? Lily said, pushing a piece of broccoli to the edge of her plate in that diplomatic way she had, like she was hoping he wouldn't notice, but also not willing to actually eat it.