And this building would do that. He could tell already. “It’s beautiful, Anna,” he said, scrolling along the plans.
“We’ll see how much gets changed once the city sees it,” she said dryly.
He laughed. “I know. But you’ve made something great here, sweetie. I’m proud of you. People are going to love it.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she said. He could hear her smile from three hundred miles away.
“How’s Pittsburgh?” he asked. “Are you ready to come home yet?”
“You know I’m not,” she said.
“You know I have to ask.”
“Do you? You already know the answer.”
“Your mother and I miss you. That’s all.”
Her voice softened. “I know you do, Dad.” She sighed. “I talked to Mom this morning. It sounds like there’s a lot going on with her.”
“She’s figuring some stuff out,” he said. “Business stuff.”
“That’s what she said. But she didn’t seem worried.” She hesitated for a long moment and Kevin’s stomach clenched. He had a feeling what was coming. “She said you might have made a new friend?”
Anna was their oldest, born when they were still trying to figure out how to balance Kevin’s desire to stay in Swanley with Marianne’s desperate need to get out. The bakery had been under the control of Marianne’s father’s best friend as she tried to find a way to honor her father’s wishes while still being her own person. Adding a difficult pregnancy to the mix hadn’t helped. Then Marianne had taken the bakery back when Anna had been barely two, when Marianne had been pregnant with Jacob and then Janie almost immediately afterward. They’d struggled for years, until finally, when Anna was thirteen, they’d gotten divorced. She’d been the family peacemaker, the babysitter of her younger siblings, and a grownup long before he’d wanted that for her. Jacob and Janie had blamed him for the divorce, maybe rightly. Anna had tried her best not to blame anyone. And she still felt like she had to take care of him.
“That’s none of your mother’s business, Anna.”
“Or mine, I know.” She hesitated. “But I think it’s good for you to get out there, now that you’re retired.”
“What exactly did your mother say to you?” he asked, a sneaking suspicion his very unsubtle ex-wife had given away more than she’d meant to.
“Just that you were having a hard time because you made a new friend. That’s all. And I know you’ve only dated women before, so—”
“What do you mean?” His first instinct was to reply angrily but he suppressed it. The effort mostly left him tired, with a headache starting in his temple. He would have hung up on anyone besides one of his children by now. He didn’t need anybody analyzing him. He didn’t need her hinting around and tiptoeing, treating him like a child who didn’t know their own mind.
“I mean it’s a big step, that’s all. I’m proud of you.”
“Proud of me for what?”
“For going on dates! With people who aren’t women!”
Kevin pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a few seconds. “What?” he said finally.
“You—you did go on a date with a man, right?” Her cheer had faded slightly into confusion and a little bit of wariness.
“I—” he gaped. “Yes,” he said, deflating. “I guess I did.”
“So that’s good! I want you to not be lonely, Dad.”
“But—I’ve always been straight, Anna. You’ve never known me as anything other than straight.”
A long silence.
“Anna?” He glanced at the phone to make sure he hadn’t lost his connection.
“Dad, did—did you not know you were queer?”
He flinched at the word. “I’m not.”
“You went on a date with a man,” she said gently.
“I know you use that word, but I don’t think I can,” he said. “It’s familiar in the wrong ways.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. Bisexual, then? Like Janie and Mom?”
He let out a long breath. “Maybe. Yes. I guess I’m that. It sounds right. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“How did you know I was bisexual before I did?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have let you tell me. But I honestly thought you knew and were being quiet about it. You know, private stuff staying private and all that.”
“I wasn’t,” he said, voice plaintive. “I had no idea.” He didn’t know when his little girl became the grownup comforting him. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
“Well.” She huffed a humorless laugh. “There was the way you stared at Han Solo. And the way you always talked about that boy from high school.”
“What boy?” he said.
“Sam, I think his name was? Your friend who moved away. The one who wrote you that letter when I was in middle school.”
He remembered the letter. It had come to his mother’s address, just as they were closing up the house after her death. It had been a long letter, filled with memories and he had taken it into the bedroom and closed the door, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and running his fingers over the letters. At the time, he’d thought he was fondly remembering his youth. But in retrospect—
“I never knew,” he said numbly.
“That’s okay,” said Anna. “Want to tell me about this guy you met? Are you going to see him again?”
“I don’t think so.” He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, remembering the way he’d ended things when they’d spoken. “I don’t think I will.”
*
Awais was tired. The Christmas rush was in full swing, and he was driving a two-ton truck filled to the brim with packages. Swanley wasn’t a big town, but back in Providence, he’d be able to empty a whole truck over the course of three blocks of apartments and triple-deckers. Here, it took six miles of driving to suburban, wide-lawned houses out in the boonies. His coworkers were friendly, even if there were a few weirdos: he’d gotten friendly with Doris and Maurice and he’d even started a joking rivalry with Scotty, the owner of his favorite route to cover. He liked delivering mail in downtown Swanley: little businesses like the Cairo Grill or Gordie’s Stationery or the Lucky Dog, offices with friendly receptionists who’d stop him to chat for a moment, small apartment buildings like Kevin’s.
Kevin. He still didn’t understand what had happened. Or maybe he did. Maybe it was exactly what he’d been afraid of, and he’d get to tell Fatima he’d told her so. He had pulled back in a moment of gay panic, just like so many (well, three) mostly-straight men who’d slept with Awais before. He’d not been enough then to keep them interested in men, and apparently he wasn’t now.
But Kevin’s building wasn’t on the route Awais was covering today, so he put the man out of his mind. This was Scotty’s route, and the kid was finally taking a day off for the first time since the summer. Scotty was a good kid, and if Awais had been a little younger, he might have tried to flirt. But fifty was staring him in the face a few years out, and the idea of dating a kid born in the nineties was just a little too weird.
Awais pulled up to the next house on Billerica Drive and deposited six manila mailers, a small pile of letters, and a giant package emblazoned with a picture of a toy kitchen on the side. He hoped one of the parents got home before the kids did, so as not to spoil the surprise, but it wasn’t his job to play Santa’s accomplice.
The next house, a small white two-story shingled building with a historical society plaque that said 1886, had a beautiful garden out front. As Awais walked to the front porch to deposit mail in the door slot, he heard a rustling around the side of the house.
Awais had been a mail carrier almost ten years, and he knew the kind of sounds you usually heard in a neighborhood like this one in the middle of the day. This scraping sound wasn’t one of them. He put the mail through the slot and walked carefully around the house, avoiding the garden which, even in winter, was neatly groomed.
At first, he didn’t see anything at all. He frowned at the side of the house, looking one way, then the other.
“Young man!” said a cracked voice from below him.
Startled, Awais looked down. An ancient man sat against the wall of the house, head leaned back against the shingles, legs outstretched.
“Would you please hand me my cane?” asked the man.
Awais looked where he was pointing his gnarled finger. Sure enough, a polished wooden cane lay fallen a few feet away. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked as he picked it up. “Can I help you up?”
The man took the cane and glanced at the ground, then sighed. “I think you’ll have to,” he said. “Goodness, I’m feeling all my years today.”
Awais took his outstretched hand and levered him upright carefully. Standing, he couldn’t be more than a few inches over five feet, and he felt light as a bird under Awais’s hands. He was Black, his skin a rich mahogany brown, and Awais guessed he was of an age with his grandmother, at least mideighties if not older. The man winced as he settled himself on his feet.
“Are you okay?” asked Awais as the man leaned against the house, breathing hard, one hand on his cane and supported by Awais’s grip, the other against his chest.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “Don’t work yourself up over me.” He shuffled forward slowly, still leaning most of his weight on the wall and Awais.
Awais helped him a few more feet, but he barely made it to the edge of the porch before collapsing slowly to sit on the steps.
“Maybe I’m having a little more trouble than I thought,” he wheezed.
“Let me call somebody for you,” said Awais, sitting beside him and pulling out his phone.
“Ezekiel is in class,” said the man. “He won’t be home for hours.”
“I can call an ambulance.”
“No,” said the man. “Oh, that’s far too much time and expense. I can drive myself to the doctor.”
“I’m not letting you drive yourself in this condition, sir,” said Awais. “I’m Awais, by the way.”
“Joe Mitchell,” said the man. “Do you have a better idea?”
“I’ll drive you there.”
“I’m not getting in that deathtrap of a government vehicle,” said Mr. Mitchell. “I don’t care how hard I’m breathing.”
“In your car. Do you have your keys?”
“I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?”
Awais shook his head.
He sighed. “Fine. They’re on the kitchen table.” He waved a hand behind him, still breathing hard.
“Will you be all right on your own for a minute?”
“Boy, I’ve spent most of the last thirty years on my own. I’ll be fine for five minutes.”
Awais nodded, standing up and hurrying up the steps and in through the screen door. It let him into a neat kitchen with worn wooden cabinets and thick butcher block counters, with small potted plants lining the windowsill over the sink. A woodstove warmed the room, the glow of embers visible through the glass on the door. He dialed the office on speakerphone as he found the keys on the table in a small, chipped porcelain dish.
“Uh, Swanley Post Office, this is Scotty?”
“Scotty?” Awais blinked. Scotty was a carrier. He shouldn’t’ve been answering the phones. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, fine,” said Scotty, breezily, the caution leaving his voice as he recognized the caller. “Tony’s out dealing with a breakdown, Kay’s youngest forgot his lunchbox and she had to run out, and I guess Tunde has a line at the retail window, so Tony left me in charge.”
“I hope he’s paying you supervisor pay,” said Awais. “Manning the phones in December sucks.”
Scotty laughed. “I just tell them to call back in an hour, man. And I got it in writing, I’m getting that extra cash. What’s up?”
Awais pushed open the screen door. “I’m driving a customer to the hospital. Tell him somebody might want to take my two hours overtime? It’s sitting in a hamper on the loading dock. It has my name on it.”
“Everything good?”
“I think he’ll be fine. Mr. Mitchell here just is having a little trouble breathing.”
“Oh no, Joe? Tell him I’ll call his grandson.”
“Is that Scotty Pillon I hear?” asked Joe as he let Awais pull him to his feet. “Tell him I’ll be fine, and I’ll see him Sunday for Christmas services.”
Scotty laughed. “I’ll let Tony know. He’ll be pissed, but you’ve got to take care of Joe. He keeps this town running.”
“Thanks, Scotty. Tell Tony I’m leaving the truck at Mr. Mitchell’s house, but I’ll be back for it.”
He got Mr. Mitchell settled in the passenger seat of his old red pickup truck, helping him boost himself up into the seat. He had to push the driver’s seat back at least six inches before his own long legs would fit inside. “To the hospital in Barchester, Mr. Mitchell?
“Oh, Lord, no.” Mr. Mitchell. “And you can call me Joe. Since we’re in this together. No, take me to Dr. Washington, over on Oak Street. She’ll check me out.”
“Do you want to call her first, make you an appointment?”
“She’ll see me. I’ve been her patient for thirty years, and I’ve known her parents since they were babies. If she’s busy, she’ll set me up with a nurse.” His face was slightly ashy, gray under his dark complexion. His eyes were closed, his head leaned back against the seat.
“Okay.” Awais started the truck and backed out of the driveway slowly, glancing at his postal truck as he passed. The windows and doors were shut tight. Good. The mail would keep. He turned onto Washakum, unable to keep himself from glancing at number 210 as he passed it. Maybe Kevin was in there, being straight or whatever. Not thinking about Awais; that was for sure. He cleared his throat. “You said somebody was going to be home in a few hours? Ezekiel? Is he your son?”
Joe snorted. “Heavens, no. Great-grandson. He’s a good boy. Works at the bakery.”
“Oh! I think I know who he is. The bakery over on Main Street?”
“Only one bakery in this town, son.” He opened one eye to study Awais. “You’re new in town, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you before.”
“Just transferred in October,” Awais admitted. “But I lived here as a kid.”
“Is that right? What’s your last name again, son?”
“Siddiqui.”
Joe’s face crinkled in a smile. “Ah, I knew your face was ringing a bell somewhere. You’re Ayesha and Ahmed’s youngest.”
“That’s right,” said Awais, surprised. “You remember me?”
Joe shrugged. “You remember a lot of things when you’ve spent ninety-eight years in one place.”
Awais turned on Oak, then pulled into a spot in front of Swanley Primary Care. He turned the car off and unbuckled, handing Joe the keys.
“What are you doing?” asked Joe.
“I’m coming in with you,” said Awais.
“Why?”
“Because I want to make sure you’re all right.”
“That’s very kind, but I’m not an invalid,” said Joe.
“I’m going to help you inside, all right?”
Joe grunted as he tried to push himself up. “Fine. But I don’t need the help.”
“I know, but it’ll make me feel better about abandoning my route.” Awais held out a hand, letting Joe lean on him as he climbed down from the truck.
The receptionist looked up as they entered, smiling at Joe. “Granddad! What can I do for you?”
“Is Lucy free? This young gentleman thinks I should go to the hospital, but I want her opinion.”
The woman looked down at her computer screen. “She’s just finishing up with a patient now, but she’s got a few minutes after that. Do you mind waiting? I’ll keep you company.”
Joe freed himself from Awais, walking slowly to a seat and settling down. “I’m ninety-eight years old, Heather. I’ve got nothing but time.”
He turned to Awais. “I appreciate the ride, and the care, Mr. Siddiqui. I won’t keep you any longer.”
“Are you sure? I can wait with you if you like.”
“Oh, Heather and I are family. She’ll keep me busy. Probably put me to work.”
Awais looked to the receptionist for confirmation. She smiled. “We’ve got him. Thanks for helping him out.”
Awais nodded. “Sure.” He glanced back at Joe, who was sitting with his eyes closed. “I think he fell out in his yard. I found him while I was delivering. He seems fine, but I thought you should know he’d been outside in the cold for a while, I think.”
Heather sighed quietly. “I really appreciate it. He’s my great-grandpa, and he’d never tell us something was wrong.”
“My grandma’s the same way.” Awais turned back to Joe and pulled out a missed delivery notice from his pocket, grabbing a pen from the counter and scribbling down his name and number. “If you need anything, or if you want, let me know you’re all right, okay?”
Joe took the paper and tucked it in his pocket. “I’ll do that. Welcome back to Swanley, Awais. I for one am glad you’re here.”
Awais nodded, something hot rising in his throat, and blinked back sudden, strange tears. “Thanks,” he managed, before fleeing outside.
Chapter Six
After a late lunch with Lila Shapiro gossiping about Swanley’s strangest residents, Kevin was moving slow. He’d walked to Masala, and he was regretting it a little as he turned the corner from Tremont onto Oak Street. He loved their food, but the amount of cream involved was probably not ideal for his heart or his digestive system. Kathy Bell—who was a nurse—always reminded him he didn’t have to eat all the cream-based dishes and could get a tandoori plate like she did, but he disagreed. Walking the mile home would counteract some of it, wouldn’t it? It’d get his system moving, at least.
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