Roscoe called on the morning he was due back.
He said he was finishing his run.
He expected to reach the truck stop later that afternoon.
I listened.
Then I asked whether everything had gone all right.
He said it had.
He asked about his mother.
I told him she was doing well.
He asked about the boys.
I said they would be visiting that weekend.
He sounded pleased.
Then he asked whether I would be coming to meet him.
I looked through the kitchen window.
The sky was clear.
The driveway was empty.
"No," I said.
There was a pause.
"All right."
He didn't argue.
We ended the call.
I went back to what I was doing.
His mother was in the living room.
I had just finished helping her with her hair.
She asked whether Roscoe was coming home.
"Yes. Later today."
She nodded.
"Good."
I didn't know whether she was happy or worried.
Perhaps both.
That afternoon, I made sure the house was ready.
Not because Roscoe was coming.
Because I liked a clean house.
I folded the laundry.
I prepared something for supper.
I checked his mother's supplies.
The boys arrived later.
They were excited when they heard Grandpa would be home.
The youngest asked whether he could stay up until Roscoe arrived.
I told him we would see.
The oldest looked toward the kitchen counter.
The pizza box sign was still there.
He picked it up.
"Should we put this out again?"
I looked at him.
"Do you want to?"
He nodded.
I helped him find a place on the living room table.
He set it down carefully.
The letters faced the doorway.
Then he went to play.
I watched him for a moment.
At about the time Roscoe usually arrived, I heard a vehicle outside.
The sound was familiar.
His pickup.
I looked toward the window.
He parked in the driveway.
For a moment, I saw him sitting behind the wheel.
He didn't get out immediately.
Then the door opened.
He climbed down.
He looked toward the house.
I remained in the kitchen.
I didn't run to the door.
I didn't call his name.
I didn't feel the excitement I used to feel.
But I wasn't indifferent either.
There was still a long history between us.
There were still forty years of ordinary mornings and family memories.
I couldn't erase those things.
I also couldn't let them erase what had happened.
Roscoe came inside.
"Hello."
The youngest ran toward him.
"Grandpa!"
Roscoe bent down and hugged him.
The middle boy followed.
The oldest came more slowly.
Roscoe looked at him.
"Hey, buddy."
The boy nodded.
"Hi, Grandpa."
Roscoe put a hand on his shoulder.
I watched from the kitchen doorway.
His mother called from the living room.
"Roscoe?"
He turned.
"Hi, Ma."
He walked over to her.
She looked at him carefully.
He bent down and kissed her forehead.
"How are you feeling?"
"Better than I was the last time I saw you."
He looked down.
She didn't smile.
He stood beside her chair.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he said he was glad to be home.
His mother looked at him.
"Then behave like it."
He nodded.
I turned back toward the kitchen.
I didn't want to listen to every conversation.
I wanted to give them room to speak.
A little later, Roscoe came into the kitchen.
He placed his travel bag near the wall.
He looked at the counter.
The grocery list was still there.
The little oranges weren't on it.
He noticed.
Then he looked toward me.
"How have you been?"
"All right."
He nodded.
He asked whether his mother had needed anything while he was gone.
I told him about her appointments.
I told him about the medicine.
I told him what we had run out of.
He listened.
Then he asked whether he could take over some of her care while he was home.
I looked at him.
"That would help."
He nodded.
There was no grand promise.
No speech about becoming a different man.
Just an offer to do something that needed doing.
I accepted it.
He looked toward the living room.
The cardboard sign was sitting on the table.
He walked over and picked it up.
The boys watched him.
"Is this the one you made at the truck stop?"
The youngest nodded.
"Yes!"
Roscoe examined it.
He turned it slightly so the light fell across the writing.
"I didn't really look at this that day."
The oldest answered quietly.
"We noticed."
Roscoe looked at him.
"I should have."
The boy didn't say anything.
Roscoe put the sign back.
He didn't try to make the children forgive him.
He didn't ask them to forget.
That evening, we ate supper together.
Roscoe sat at the table with his mother and the boys.
I served the food.
For once, he offered to cut his mother's pork chop.
She watched him do it.
He made the pieces too large.
She looked at the plate.
"Smaller, please."
He tried again.
I stood beside them.
I almost smiled.
He had a lot to learn about caring for the people in his own house.
After supper, I began clearing the table.
Roscoe stood.
"Leave those. I'll wash them."
I looked at him.
Then I handed him the dish towel.
"All right."
I went to sit with his mother.
From the kitchen, I heard water running.
The boys were laughing in the living room.
His mother reached for my hand.
I squeezed hers.
The house was full again.
But I knew that being home wasn't the same as repairing what had been broken.
And neither Roscoe nor I could pretend otherwise.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: Roscoe Started Helping Around the House, but I Was No Longer Confusing Small Acts of Kindness With Proof That Everything Was Fixed
Forty Years of Goodbyes, Packed Coolers, and Promises I Never Thought I Would Have to Question
Part 16 of 20
