Noah nodded.
That was it.
For the next four years, from spring through fall, every Saturday morning, Noah mowed Mr. Vance’s lawn.
He never got paid.
Noah looked offended.
I once told him he should at least let the man give him twenty dollars.
Noah looked offended.
“Why?”
“Because you’re doing work.”
“So?”
“So people usually get paid for work.”
He shrugged. “He can’t do it.”
Mr. Vance wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
Apparently, as far as Noah was concerned, that settled the matter.
Mr. Vance wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
Sometimes I would see Noah finish the lawn, wipe his forehead with his shirt, and stand by the porch.
Mr. Vance might say three words.
Noah might say two.
“What did you two talk about?”
Then Noah would come home.
“What did you two talk about?” I’d ask.
“Nothing.”
“You stood there for ten minutes.”
“Yeah.”
“What did he say?”
That was apparently an entire conversation between them.
“He said it’s hot.”
“And?”
“I said yeah.”
That was apparently an entire conversation between them.
Still, during mowing season, Noah never missed a Saturday unless we were out of town.
Even the morning after prom, when Noah looked like he hadn’t slept at all.
Summer heat.
Cold October mornings.
Light rain.
The week before finals.
Even the morning after prom, when Noah looked like he hadn’t slept at all.
I recognized him from a few holiday visits.
He went.
