Neither of them moved toward their cars. For the record, Clare said, I had a good time. For the record, Darius said, so did I. Not so bad for someone who was gripping a menu. I was not gripping the menu, Darius.
You were white knuckling a laminated menu. I'm going to my car now, he said. She was laughing. He walked to his truck. He got in.
He started the engine, the new alternator caught immediately, smooth and clean. And he sat there for just a second before pulling out. And he looked across the lot and saw Clare's car still in its spot and her driver's side window coming down and her waving once briefly. The way people wave when they're not making a big deal of a thing they're actually making a big deal of. He waved back.
He drove home and the whole drive back 15 minutes through familiar streets. He did something he hadn't done in years. He didn't plan anything. He didn't problems solve. He didn't run inventory on everything that needed to happen before he could afford to feel all right.
He just drove and let the evening sit in him without immediately trying to manage it. It felt unfamiliar. It felt very good. He pulled into his driveway, looked at the house next door, saw her kitchen light. Come on and went inside.
Maya was asleep. He stood in her doorway for a moment, the way he always did, checking the specific rhythm of her breathing. The way a father who raised a child through grief learns to verify that the people he loves are still there. Her left foot was sticking out from under the blanket. He crossed the room, tucked it back in, and stood there for another second.
Went okay, huh? Maya said without opening her eyes. You're supposed to be asleep. I was asleep. I woke up when your truck pulled in.
She paused. Did you wear the gray shirt? I wore the blue one. She made a sound of approval and went back to sleep. Darius turned off her lamp and stood in the hall and thought that his daughter had decided months ago that life should keep moving and that she was apparently further along in this understanding than he was.
He went to bed and slept through the night for the first time in longer than he could remember. That should have felt like a beginning. And it was what he didn't know yet was that something beginning also means something is moving and things in motion eventually meet resistance. The first resistance came not from a stranger but from a neighbor named Gerald Walsh, 62, who had lived three houses down for 11 years and who had always been civil to Darius in the specifically calibrated way of a man who was proud of his civility without examining what it was doing. It was a Thursday morning, 11 days after the diner.
Darius was backing out of his driveway at 6:45 when Gerald Walsh appeared on the sidewalk with his coffee mug and a look on his face that Darius recognized immediately the look of a man who has decided something is his business. Morning, Darius said. Window down, Darius. Gerald Walsh held his mug with both hands. You and Clare doing all right?
Darius kept his expression completely neutral. Fine, thanks. I only ask because I've noticed you over there a fair amount. She needed some help with a few things around the house. Of course.