We Bought Aunt June’s House So Dad Would Never Be Homeless, Then He Announced His Girlfriend and Her Grown Sons Were Moving In for Free
“Tammy and her boys are moving in Saturday,” Dad said.
He said it the way a man tells you the weather. His fork was still in his green beans. He didn’t even look up.
We were sitting at Aunt June’s kitchen table, the yellow one with the chrome legs, on a Tuesday
night in October. I’d stopped by after my last service call of the day to look at the pilot light on the water heater. I still had my work jacket on, and my hands still smelled like copper and flux.
I set my coffee cup down very carefully. I didn’t trust what my hand might do with it.
“Moving in where?” I said.
“Here.” He pointed his fork at the ceiling, at the walls, at the whole little house. “Tammy, Kyle and Travis. Saturday morning. She’s renting a truck. I figured you’d want to know before you came by
and found strangers in the hall.”
Tammy Reese was Dad’s girlfriend of eight months. I’d met her twice. She was 58, worked the deli counter at the grocery store in town, and laughed loud at things that weren’t all that funny. Her
boys were 31 and 28. I had nothing against her.
“Dad,” I said, “there are two bedrooms in this house.”
“Kyle can have the front room once I clear it out. Travis can take the couch till he gets on his feet.
Tammy’s with me.” He shrugged. “People have lived in smaller.”
“And who’s paying the gas bill when there are four grown people running that furnace all winter?”
He didn’t even lift his eyes from his plate.
“You always have,” he said.
I sat there with that.
It was true. That was the worst part. It was completely true, and he said it like it was something
about me instead of something about him.
“Dad,” I said slowly. “Mom and I bought this house.”
“I know who bought it.” Now he looked up. His eyes were hard. “You and your mother bought it
so you could feel good about yourselves. I’ve lived here six years, Shane. It’s my house. Don’t make it my problem now that I finally got somebody.”
He got up. He scraped his plate into the trash. He ran water over it in the sink.
That was the end of the conversation as far as he was concerned. It had always been that way with Dad. He said the thing, and then he walked off from it and left you standing in the middle of it.
I went down the basement stairs and looked at the pilot light. It was fine. It had always been fine.
I drove home with both hands on the wheel and the radio off, and the whole way I kept hearing it.
It’s my house.
There were two names on the deed to that house. I’d watched them both get signed at a title company six years earlier. Neither one of them was his.
Six years ago, my father lost his apartment over the hardware store on Main Street.
The building sold to a man from Louisville who wanted to redo the upstairs into something fancy. The new rent was almost double. Dad couldn’t pay it.
He was 60 then. He’d retired early from the foundry two counties over after thirty-one years,
because his back finally gave out from lifting core boxes and the plant was offering a buyout. The buyout wasn’t much. His pension was less. Six hundred and eighty dollars a month, plus what Social Security would give him later.
He didn’t tell me he’d lost the apartment.
I found out from a man at the parts counter at the supply house. He leaned over the counter while he was ringing up my capacitors and said, kind of careful, like he was stepping around a
hole, “Shane, I’ve seen your dad’s truck parked behind the VFW three mornings in a row. Everything all right?”
It wasn’t.
He was sleeping on a buddy’s couch, it turned out. And the buddy’s wife wanted him gone. My father was 60 years old with two duffel bags and a Silverado with 240,000 miles on it, and he hadn’t said one word to his only son.
I drove out to that buddy’s house after work. Dad was sitting on the front steps smoking a cigarette he’d quit twelve years earlier.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I asked him.
He flicked the ash. “Because you’d have done something about it.”
That was Dad. He’d rather sleep in a truck than let somebody see him need something.
That same spring, Aunt June died.
June was Dad’s aunt, his mother’s sister. She was 91. She went in her sleep in the little white house on Persimmon Street where she’d lived since 1958, with her African violets lined up on the windowsill and her porch swing painted fresh white.
June never had children of her own. She married late, to a widower with one grown son named Ron. When she passed, the house went to Ron. Ron lived in Ohio and didn’t want a house in southern Indiana.
He listed it at $72,000.
It needed a roof. The furnace was a 1987 model that I wouldn’t have let a customer run for one more winter. The house sat on the market for a month without a single offer.
So I called Ron.
I told him who I was. I told him my father needed somewhere to land, and that I couldn’t pay $72,000.
He was quiet for a minute. Then he said something I didn’t expect.
“June talked about you every Christmas,” he said. “Her little helper. The green bean boy.”
He took $64,000. I think he could have gotten more if he’d waited. I think he didn’t want to wait.
And I think he wanted June’s house to go to somebody she knew.
Problem was, I didn’t have $64,000.
I was 33 years old. I was a heating and air tech for Rick Hollis Heating and Air. I had a mortgage
of my own and a wife who was still paying on her nursing school loans.
I could get half.
I went to the credit union and took out a home equity loan for $32,000 against our own house.
Seven-year term. $468 a month.
Amy signed for it at our kitchen table without making me explain it twice. She just looked at the papers, looked at me, and picked up the pen.
“He’s your dad,” she said. “And June was June.”
I paid that loan off in five years of Saturday side jobs. Furnace tune-ups for widows. Ductwork in basements. A whole summer of window units for a church camp. Five years of Saturdays.
The other half came from my mother.
People always ask about that part when they hear the story. Why would a woman who’d been divorced from a man for fourteen years put $32,000 of her own money into a house so he’d have
a place to sleep?
There are a few answers. All of them are true.
The first one is Aunt June.
When I was little, Mom was waiting tables at the diner and Dad was on day shift at the foundry. It was June who watched me every summer. June had that porch swing, painted white, and she’d sit me on it with a dishpan full of green beans between us and teach me how to snap them.
She called me her helper. She paid me a quarter a pan.
When my parents fought, which was most of my childhood, it was June’s house I got sent to. When they finally split, the year I turned 19, June was the one who drove over to Mom’s apartment
with a casserole and sat with her at the kitchen table until it got dark.
“June was more family to me than anybody in the whole Kolb line,” Mom told me once. Then she patted my hand. “Present company excepted.”
The second answer is that my mother is a practical woman.
She’d worked twenty-seven years in a school cafeteria. She had $41,000 in savings from three decades of clipping coupons and working banquets on the weekends. And she did the math.
She’d retire someday. Her rent kept going up. A paid-for house on a quiet street, a house she’d loved since before I was born, was the best place she could think of to put money she would someday need.
“Your daddy can stay there until he’s on his feet,” she told me. “And when I retire, I’ll want it. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
The third answer is the one she’d never say out loud.
She didn’t want the father of her son sleeping in a truck behind the VFW.
She wasn’t in love with him. She hadn’t been in love with him for a very long time. But she wasn’t cruel. My mother has never been cruel to anybody in her life.
We closed on it in May at Hoosier Title Company, in a little conference room with a bowl of peppermints on the table.
The closing agent was a woman named Carol with reading glasses on a beaded chain. She slid the
warranty deed across the table and showed us where to sign.
“Grantees,” she said, tapping the page. “Shane Kolb and Linda Kolb. Tenants in common, equal shares. That right?”
“That’s right,” Mom said.
Carol had it recorded at the county the following Tuesday. They mailed us each a copy. Mine went into the gray fireproof box in our bedroom closet with our marriage license and the kids’ birth
certificates.
Dad’s name wasn’t on the deed. There was never a lease. There was never any rent. Not one dollar, ever.
He moved in the first week of June. He said thank you once, in the driveway, without looking at either one of us.
Then he went inside and shut the door.
I want to be fair to my father. He’s my father, and he’s not a bad man. He’s a man who’s been disappointed by almost everything in his life, and who learned early to be the first one to walk away.
He kept the yard mowed. He kept the gutters clean. He fixed the drip in June’s bathroom sink with a washer from his own coffee can of washers. He repainted the porch swing every single spring. He didn’t tear the place up.
But he didn’t pay for it, either.
Mom paid half the property taxes, about $350 a year. I paid the other half, plus the homeowner’s insurance, $940 a year with Indiana Farm Mutual.
And most months, right around the twentieth, my phone would ring.
“Running a little short this month, bud.”
It was never a lot. Eighty dollars. A hundred and ten in January. A hundred and forty that February
we had the ice storm.
I paid it because he was my father. And because it was easier to pay it than to listen to him not ask for it.
Six years of that is a lot of Januarys.
Mom never once went to the house in those six years. Not one time. When Dad moved in, she said it was his to live in until it was hers, and she wasn’t going to be the ex-wife standing in his
kitchen.
But she’d ask me about it. Whether the lilac by the back step had bloomed. Whether he’d kept the porch swing painted. Whether the front bedroom still got the morning light.
I always said yes. Because it did.
That front bedroom has two windows on the east side. In the morning, the sun comes through June’s old lace curtains and lands on the floor in little flowers.
Mom would close her eyes when I told her that. Like she could see it.
Amy was at our kitchen table with her reading glasses pushed up on her head, doing the bills, when I got home that Tuesday night.
She took one look at my face and pushed the checkbook aside.
“What did he do?”
I told her. All of it. Tammy. The boys. The truck on Saturday. She listened all the way through
without interrupting, which is one of the reasons I married her.
When I got to the part where he said we bought the house so we could feel good about ourselves, she took her glasses off and set them on the table.
“So call him back,” she said. “Tell him no. It’s your house.”
But I’d been telling my father no my whole life, and he’d never once heard it as anything but maybe.
He’d say “fine” and hang up. And then on Saturday morning, that truck would come anyway. And once Tammy’s boys had their beds set up and their mail coming to that address, I’d be the son who put his own father’s girlfriend and her kids out on the curb in November.
I’d never get them out without becoming a man I didn’t want to be.
“He doesn’t hear no,” I said. “He hears a starting price.”
I got up and went into our bedroom. I pulled the gray fireproof box down off the closet shelf
and brought it back to the table. I dug through it until I found the envelope from the county recorder’s office.
I unfolded the deed and laid it flat between us.
Warranty Deed. Recorded May 14th. Grantees: Shane Kolb and Linda Kolb, as tenants in common.
Amy put her finger on Mom’s name.
Then I went to the drawer by the phone where I keep my receipts. I’d always kept them. I don’t
know why. Habit, I guess. Every time I paid Dad’s gas bill, I’d written the amount on a sticky note and dropped it in that drawer.
I dumped them out on the table. Little yellow squares. Six years of them.
Amy picked up a calculator. She added them up while I sat there not saying anything.
“Five thousand six hundred and twenty dollars,” she said quietly. “Just the gas. Not counting the insurance or your half of the taxes.”
We sat there and looked at that number.
“He told me it’s his house,” I said.
Amy thought about that. She put her glasses back on and looked at me over the top of them, the way she looks at a patient who’s just told her he feels fine.
“Then call your mother,” she said.
I called Mom at nine o’clock, which is late for her.
She answered on the second ring with the television going in the background. Some show about people buying houses on tropical islands.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
Mothers don’t say hello after eight-thirty.
I told her everything. Tammy. The boys. Saturday. And I told her about the gas bills, which I’d
never once told her in six years.
She was quiet for a long time.
“Well,” she said finally. “Isn’t that something.”
“Mom,” I said. “What’s going on with your lease?”
That was the thing I’d been carrying around in my head the whole drive home.
Mom’s lease at the Meadowbrook Apartments was up on October 31st. Ten days away. A new
management company out of Indianapolis had bought the complex in the summer, and in August they’d sent every tenant a letter on fancy letterhead.
Her rent was going up $175 a month. From $790 to $965.
On a school cook’s income, with her retiring at Christmas break, that was not a small thing. She’d be living on her pension from the school corporation and an early Social Security check. She’d been fretting about it for two months and pretending to me that she wasn’t.
“I was going to talk to you and your daddy after Thanksgiving,” she said. “I was going to sign on for six more months and then see.”
“You don’t have to sign anything,” I said. “You own half a house.”
“Shane.”
“You were always going to retire there, Mom. That was the plan. That was the whole plan from the very beginning. You said it at the closing. I was sitting right there.”
“I am not going over there to fight your daddy,” she said. “I am 64 years old, and I have not been in a room with that man for longer than a funeral in twenty years. I’m not starting with a fight.”
“You’re not fighting,” I said. “You’re moving home.”
She didn’t say anything for so long I thought the call had dropped. I could hear the island show in the background. Somebody was very excited about a kitchen with an ocean view.
“The front bedroom gets the morning sun,” she said, very quietly.
“It does.”
“June’s violets would like that.”
I didn’t know what she meant. I didn’t ask. I just said I’d take Friday off and borrow a trailer and be at her apartment by seven.
After we hung up, I sat at the kitchen table for a long time with the deed still lying open in front of
me.
I called Rick at six Friday morning and told him I needed the day.
Rick has owned Hollis Heating and Air for thirty years. He doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t need
answered. He just said he’d move the Hendersons’ heat pump to Monday.
“Give your mother my best,” he said.
Amy’s brother Jeff brought his flatbed trailer and his own dolly. The three of us were at Mom’s
apartment by seven.
She had coffee made. She’d been up since four. And she’d labeled every single box in black marker in her careful school-cook printing.
Kitchen, everyday. Kitchen, good dishes. Bathroom. Winter clothes. Church.
And one small box, sitting on the counter all by itself, that said only one word.
June.
By eleven, the trailer was full. On the way out, Mom stopped at the leasing office and handed the young woman at the desk her keys and a typed letter.
“That’s my notice,” she said. “I’ll be out by the thirty-first. You can keep my $500 deposit or mail it
to me. Either way, I’m going home.”
The young woman blinked at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
By noon we were on Persimmon Street.
Dad wasn’t home. His truck was gone. He spent most days at Tammy’s sister’s place now, out on the county road past the grain elevator.
I had a key. I’d always had a key. I’d never once used it without knocking first.
I knocked anyway. Nobody came. I unlocked the door.
Mom stood on the porch for a long minute before she came in.
She put her hand on the white porch swing, the one June used to sit me on with a pan of green
beans, and she gave it a little push. She watched it go back and forth.
“He kept it painted,” she said.
“Every spring.”
She went inside.
The front bedroom had been Dad’s junk room for six years. Boxes of old foundry paperwork. A broken treadmill. A recliner with the stuffing coming out of one arm. And about forty empty
coffee cans he was saving for no reason anybody on earth could name.
Jeff and I hauled it all out to the garage.
By three o’clock, it was a room again.
Mom’s quilt on the bed. Her dresser between the two windows. Her recliner in the corner. Her Bible on the nightstand next to her reading glasses. Her housecoat on the hook on the back of the door.
The box marked June was still in the truck. Mom hadn’t let anybody carry it. When I asked where she wanted it, she said to just leave it in the cab for now.
So I did.
Jeff went home around three-thirty. Amy came over with a pitcher of sweet tea and sat on the back step.
And at four o’clock, I heard Dad’s Silverado pull into the driveway.
Dad came in through the front door and stopped dead.
I watched him take it all in. Jeff’s tire tracks pressed into the yard. The empty spot in the front room where his treadmill used to be. The woman’s coat hanging on the hook by the door.
Then he looked down the short hallway. At the front bedroom door, standing open.
At my mother, standing in it.
“Hello, Dennis,” she said.
He didn’t say anything for a long time.
He looked old, standing there. I hadn’t noticed it happening, but it had happened. His shoulders had come forward. His hair had gone white all the way through. His big foundry hands were
hanging at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.
“What is this?” he said.
He was asking me. Not her.
“Mom’s lease is up on the thirty-first,” I said. “She retires at Christmas. She paid half of this house. She’s moving into the room she paid for.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Dad, the deed has two names on it. Neither one of them is yours. You don’t have a lease. You’ve never paid a dollar of rent. Mom and I get to say who lives here.”
I said it quietly. I’d decided in the truck that morning that I wouldn’t raise my voice no matter what
he said. And I didn’t.
“Where am I supposed to put Tammy’s boys?” he said.
“That was always the question, Dad. You just never asked it out loud.”
He turned and looked at Mom.
She still had a coat hanger in her hand. She didn’t look away from him. But she didn’t look hard at him either. She looked at him the way you’d look at a dog that had gotten out and come home
all muddy.
“You’re welcome to stay, Dennis,” she said. “Nobody’s putting you out. You’ll have the back bedroom like you’ve always had. I’ll have this one. We’ll work out the kitchen.”
“Linda, Tammy is coming at eight o’clock in the morning.”
“Then you’ve got tonight to call her,” I said.
He stood there a minute longer.
Then he walked through the kitchen, right past me, without a word. Out the back door. He sat down on the back step next to Amy.
She moved her tea glass so he’d have room.
I watched through the kitchen window. He sat out there until it got dark. He didn’t take his phone out of his pocket one single time.
Around eight, I went out and sat down on the step next to him.
It was cold. The lilac by the step had dropped most of its leaves. Somebody down the street was burning a leaf pile, and the smoke hung low over the yards.
“You going to call her?” I asked.
“I don’t know what to say to her.”
“Tell her the truth.”
He laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh.
“Which part? That I don’t own the house I told her I own? That my ex-wife bought me a place to live because I couldn’t buy one myself? That my son pays my gas bill?”
I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say. It was all true.
“You want to know why,” he said after a while.
“I figured you’d tell me.”
He rubbed his hands together slowly. He has big hands. Foundry hands. The knuckles thick and
swollen from thirty-one years of handling hot iron. He was quiet so long I thought he’d changed his mind about talking.
“Tammy’s boys got evicted in September,” he said finally. “The landlord sold their duplex out from
under them. Thirty days’ notice. They’ve been sleeping on her sister’s living room floor in Bedford with a dog and a cat and everything they own in a storage unit. Tammy’s been crying in her car on her lunch break.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Nobody does. She’s proud.” He looked out at the dark yard. “And I thought, I’ve got this house. I’ve got two bedrooms and a couch. For once in my whole life, I could be the man who takes
care of somebody.”
His voice did something I’d never heard it do before. It cracked right down the middle.
“Your mother took care of me,” he said. “June took care of me. You’ve been taking care of me for
six years. And every time I call you about that gas bill, I want to put my fist through a wall.”
He stopped. Breathed.
“I just wanted one person in this world to look at me like I was the one holding the roof up.”
I looked at my father. He was 66 years old, and he was crying on a back step in the dark. And he was trying very hard not to let me see it.
“You could have asked us,” I said.
“I’d have heard no.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You never asked, Dad. You just told. You’ve always just told.”
He nodded. He didn’t argue.
That was the most surprising thing he did all week.
“I’m not putting you out,” I said. “Nobody is. Mom meant every word. But I can’t let you move three more people into her house without asking her. It’s not right. And you know it’s not right, or
you would have asked.”
He nodded again. Slowly.
“Call Tammy,” I said.
And I went inside.
I found out later that he never called her.
He sat out on that back step until almost eleven. He took his phone out twice. Both times, he put
it back in his pocket. He told me later he kept thinking that if he just waited until morning, he’d know what to say.
He never figured it out. I don’t think there was a way to say it.
I went home and slept about four hours. At seven the next morning, I came back with the last of Mom’s things from the apartment. Her coffeemaker. Her good knives. Her box of recipe cards. Her kitchen radio.
It was a cold October morning, the first real cold one of the year. The big maple in the front yard had let go of half its leaves overnight, and the grass was buried in red and gold.
Mom was already out on the porch swing.
She had on her lavender cardigan, the one she wears to every ball game and every funeral and every Wednesday night church supper. She had a mug of coffee in both hands. She was just swinging a little, pushing off with one foot.
“Morning, bud,” she said.
“You sleep?”
“Like a baby. That front room is the quietest room I’ve ever slept in.” She smiled. “Your daddy still
snores like a chainsaw through two walls. I’d forgotten that.”
“Is he up?”
“Been up since five. He’s in the kitchen. He’s made the coffee three times.”
I went back to the truck for the last box. It was the heavy one. The good dishes. The Blue Willow set that had belonged to Mom’s mother. I had my navy work jacket zipped all the way up because the wind was coming hard off the field across the road.
I was halfway up the porch steps with that box when I heard the truck.
It came down Persimmon Street slow, the way a big rental truck comes when the driver isn’t used to it. A long orange moving truck with the ramp folded up underneath. It turned into the driveway
and stopped at the edge of the gravel, short of the porch.
A woman with dyed red hair was behind the wheel.
It was Tammy.
She put it in park. Her window was already down. She didn’t turn the engine off. She didn’t get out.
She looked at the porch. She looked at me, standing on the steps with a cardboard box in my arms.
And then she looked at my mother. In her lavender cardigan. On the porch swing. Holding her coffee.
My mother looked right back at her.
For a long minute, nobody moved.
The engine idled. A few leaves blew across the driveway and under the truck. Somewhere down the street, a dog was barking at something.
Then Mom lifted her coffee mug. Just a little. Not a toast. Not a joke. Just the way you’d lift a hand to a neighbor you didn’t know very well.
Inside the house, I heard Dad’s boots cross the kitchen floor.
The screen door banged behind me. Dad came out onto the porch in his barn coat and stood at the top of the steps. He didn’t come down.
“Dennis,” Tammy said.
Her voice was very calm. That’s what got me. I’d heard her laugh loud at things that weren’t funny, but I’d never heard her this calm.
“Who is that on the swing?”
“That’s Linda,” Dad said.
“Your ex-wife.”
“Yes.”
“What is she doing on your porch at eight o’clock in the morning with a cup of coffee?”
Dad took a breath. I watched him do it. I watched him decide, right there in front of all of us, whether or not to lie.
“It’s her porch, Tammy,” he said.
Tammy didn’t move.
“She owns half the house,” Dad said. “Shane owns the other half. I don’t own any of it. Not one
board. I’ve lived here free for six years because the two of them bought it so I’d have somewhere to go. I should have told you that in March.”
Tammy didn’t say anything.
“She moved in yesterday,” Dad went on. “Front bedroom. Her lease was up. It was always supposed to be hers when she retired. I knew that. I just didn’t let myself think about it.”
“You told me this was your house,” Tammy said.
“I know I did.”
“I have two grown boys sleeping on my sister’s floor with a German shepherd,” Tammy said. Her voice was still calm, but her hands were tight on the steering wheel. “I gave notice at my place. I
paid $340 for this truck. I told my sister we’d be out of her hair by tonight.”
“I know.”
Mom stood up off the swing.
I thought for a second she was going to say something hard. I braced myself for it. But she didn’t.
She walked to the porch rail and set her coffee down on it.
“Tammy, honey,” she said. “I am sorry. He should have told you. That’s not on you, and it’s not on your boys. If you want to come in and have a cup of coffee and figure this out, the pot’s on.”
Tammy looked at her for a long time.
Then she shook her head. Slow.
“No, ma’am,” she said. “Thank you. But I’m not moving my boys into a house with a man’s ex-wife in the front bedroom. I’m 58 years old. I’ve done enough stupid things already.”
She looked at Dad one more time.
“You call me when you know what’s true, Dennis,” she said.
Then she put that truck in reverse. She checked her mirrors carefully, like a woman who’d been told
to by the man at the rental counter. And she backed that long orange truck out of the driveway without unloading one single thing.
We all watched it go down Persimmon Street.
Nobody said a word until it turned the corner by the Methodist church.
I stood on the steps with the box of Blue Willow dishes in my arms. I’d been holding it the whole time. My arms were shaking, and I honestly didn’t know if it was the weight.
Dad stood at the top of the steps for a long minute.
Then he walked over to the porch swing. And he sat down on it.
On the other end. The end June used to sit on.
He hadn’t sat on that swing next to my mother in twenty years. I’m not sure he’d sat next to her anywhere in twenty years, except one row apart at June’s funeral.
Mom looked at him. Then she picked her coffee up off the rail and sat back down on her end of
the swing.
She had a thermos on the porch floor by her feet. I hadn’t noticed it before. She unscrewed the lid, poured coffee into the cap, and handed it across to him.
“You still take it black?” she said.
“I take it however it comes these days.”
She laughed. Just a little, through her nose.
It was the first time I’d heard my mother laugh at something my father said since I was in grade school.
Then she reached down beside her on the swing and picked up the Saturday paper. She had it
folded open to the classifieds. She slid it across the swing between them and tapped one ad with her finger.
I went up the steps and looked over their shoulders.
Part-time yard help, Miller Lumber. Forklift experience a plus. 24 hours a week. $14 an hour. Apply in person.
“You drove a forklift thirty-one years,” Mom said.
“My back,” Dad said.
“It says yard help, Dennis. Not lifting core boxes. Pulling lumber orders on a forklift for contractors. Sitting down.” She took a sip of her coffee. “You’ve been sitting down for six years.
You can sit down for money.”
Dad looked at the paper. He looked at her.
He didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t hand it back, either.
I carried the Blue Willow into the kitchen and unpacked it into June’s old cabinets, one plate at a time. When I came back out, they were still on the swing.
Not talking. Just swinging a little, the two of them, drinking their coffee and watching the leaves come downThat afternoon, I went out to my truck and got the box that said June.
Mom opened it at the kitchen table.
Inside, wrapped in damp newspaper and set down in an old dishpan so they wouldn’t tip over, were six African violets in little clay pots. Purple ones and pink ones, and one white one with a blue edge around every petal.
I knew that dishpan. It was the one we used to snap green beans in.
“I took them after the funeral,” Mom said. “Nobody else wanted them. Ron was going to throw them out with the old magazines.”
“You’ve had them six years?”
“On my kitchen windowsill at the Meadowbrook.” She shook her head. “That window faces north, Shane. Do you know how hard it is to keep a violet alive in a north window for six years? I talked
to them every morning, the way June used to. I felt like a fool.”
She carried them one at a time into the front bedroom. She set them on the windowsill in a row, exactly the way June used to have them. The morning light had moved off the room by then, but
you could see just how it would land on them tomorrow.
Dad came and stood in the bedroom doorway. He didn’t come in. He looked at those violets for a long time.
“Those are June’s,” he said.
“They are.”
“You kept June’s violets.”
“Somebody had to.”
He put his hand on the door frame. I saw his jaw working.
Then he turned around and walked out to the garage. We heard him out there for an hour,
moving his old foundry boxes around. Neither one of us went out after him.
I won’t tell you any of it was easy.
They’d been married nineteen years and divorced for twenty. They had a long list of reasons why.
The first week, Mom put a list on the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a cardinal.
Kitchen after 7 p.m. is hers. Bathroom before 6 a.m. is his. Front room television is hers on Wednesdays for her show. Nobody touches anybody else’s coffee.
Dad read it standing at the fridge with his reading glasses on the end of his nose.
Then he took a pen out of the junk drawer and added one line at the bottom, in his blocky foundry handwriting.
Nobody moves the swing.
Mom read it the next morning. She didn’t say anything.
But she left it up.
There was one more thing we had to settle, and I knew it had to be on paper this time. Six years of handshakes and silence had gotten us right where we were.
The second week of November, I asked Mom and Dad to meet me at the office of a lawyer
named Paul Brandt, over on the courthouse square. Paul had done our wills a few years back. He charged me $250 for an hour, and it was the best $250 I ever spent.
We sat in three chairs in front of his desk. Dad kept his barn coat on the whole time, like he might
need to leave in a hurry.
Paul had drawn up a simple written agreement. Nothing fancy. Two pages.
It said Dennis Kolb could live at the Persimmon Street house for as long as he wanted, as an
occupant with the permission of the two owners. It said he’d pay the gas and electric bills himself, starting January 1st. It said nobody else could move in without both owners agreeing in writing. And it said the owners couldn’t ask him to leave without ninety days’ written notice.
Paul read it out loud, every word. Then he slid it across the desk.
“Mr. Kolb,” he said to Dad, “this protects you as much as it protects them. Probably more.”
Dad read it twice. His lips moved a little when he got to the part about ninety days.
“They could put me out tomorrow without this,” he said slowly. “Couldn’t they.”
Paul didn’t answer that directly. He just said, “Your son asked me to make sure nobody could do anything to anybody in a hurry. Including you.”
Dad looked at me for a long moment.
Then he took the pen and signed his name.
Mom signed. I signed. Paul’s secretary notarized all three signatures with a heavy stamp that went
chunk on the paper.
Out on the sidewalk afterward, Dad stood with his hands in his coat pockets.
“First time in six years I’ve had a piece of paper that says I live somewhere,” he said.
“First time you ever asked for one,” Mom said.
He almost smiled.
He’d gone to Miller Lumber the Monday after Tammy left and filled out an application. The yard
manager was a man named Dale, who I’d gone to high school with.
Dale called me that night.
“Your dad came in today,” he said. “He said to tell you he applied, so you wouldn’t have to hear it
from somebody else first. Is he going to be all right on a forklift?”
“He drove one for thirty-one years.”
“That’s what he said. He also said his back’s no good for lifting, and he’d tell me straight if it got
bad.” Dale paused. “I appreciated that. Most guys his age lie about it.”
Dad started the next week. Three days a week, eight hours a day, pulling orders for contractors and loading pickups with lumber and drywall.
He came home with sawdust in his collar and his face red from the cold. And he looked ten years younger.
The second week, Mom made him a lunch.
She didn’t say anything about it. She just set a brown paper bag on the counter next to his truck keys. A ham sandwich. An apple. And a thick slice of the persimmon pudding she makes every October from the tree in June’s backyard.
He looked at the bag. He looked at her back, standing at the sink.
Then he picked it up and took it to work.
I want to say something about Tammy Reese, because I don’t want anybody to think she was the
villain in this story.
She wasn’t. She was a woman who believed a man she cared about. And he hadn’t told her the truth.
About a week after the truck, Dad drove out to her sister’s place in Bedford. He didn’t tell us he was going. He told me about it later, at the lumberyard, while he was loading drywall into the back of my truck.
“I told her all of it,” he said. “The apartment. The couch. The VFW parking lot. June’s house. Your mother’s money. The gas bill. Every bit of it.”
“What did she say?”
He set a sheet of drywall down very carefully, like it was glass.
“She said she wished I’d told her in March, because she’d have liked me anyway.”
He wiped his hands on his jeans.
“And then she said she’d still like to go to the fish fry on Fridays. If I was buying.”
Tammy and her boys rented a three-bedroom house on the north side of town the first of November. Dale at the lumberyard knew the landlord, and Dad put in a word, and that’s what it
took. $1,150 a month, split three ways. Kyle got hired on at the same lumberyard in December.
Dad and Tammy go to the VFW fish fry every Friday night. She lives in her own place. He comes home by ten.
Mom leaves the porch light on for him and pretends she doesn’t.
By Thanksgiving, my mother and father had settled into a kind of life together I wouldn’t have believed if you’d told me about it in October.
They aren’t married again. They’re not going to be. Mom says she’d sooner marry a snapping turtle. Dad says the turtle would get the better end of that deal.
But they’re something.
Mom cooks. Dad does the dishes. Mom watches her island show on Wednesdays. Dad watches the Indiana game in the back bedroom with the door shut and yells at the referees through the wall.
They sit on the porch swing most mornings before he goes to work. She has her coffee. He has his, black, out of the thermos. They don’t talk much.
They don’t have to.
On the morning after Thanksgiving, I came by early to look at the furnace before it got cold for real. Mom was still in her housecoat.
The light was coming in through the east windows of the front bedroom, through June’s lace
curtains, landing on the floor in little flowers.
And on the windowsill, all in a row, June’s violets were blooming. Every single one of them. The purple ones. The pink ones. The white one with the blue edge.
Mom said they’d never bloomed like that in the north window. Not once in six years.
“They know where they are,” she said.
Dad came in from the kitchen with his work boots on and his lunch bag in one hand. He stood in
the bedroom doorway and looked at the violets for a minute, the same way he had that first day.
“June would have liked that,” he said.
“She would have,” Mom said.
Then he reached into the pocket of his barn coat and took out an envelope and handed it to me.
It was a bank envelope from the credit union. My name was written on the front in his blocky handwriting.
He didn’t say anything. He just nodded once, and went out the front door, and I heard the Silverado start up and pull away.
I sat down at June’s yellow kitchen table and opened it.
Inside were three crisp hundred-dollar bills. And a piece of Miller Lumber notepaper, folded in half.
It said: First $300 toward the gas bills. More on the 15th. Dad.
I sat there a long time with that note in my hand.
Then I went into the kitchen drawer by the phone, where I’d moved my little yellow sticky notes. Six years of them. Five thousand six hundred and twenty dollars.
I took the top one off the pile. Eighty dollars, from a January three years back. And I threw it in
the trash.
I figured I’d throw out one more every time he paid. However long it took.
It took him a little over two years. He never missed the 15th. Not once.
The last sticky note went in the trash on a Saturday morning in March. I was sitting on the porch swing with Mom when he handed me the envelope. When I told him that was the last one, he didn’t say anything at all.
He just sat down on June’s end of the swing, and Mom poured him a cup of coffee from the thermos, and the three of us sat there and watched the lilac by the back step start to bud.
