When we were done, he started to stack the plates.
I reached across the table and put my hand on his.
“Leave those,” I said.
He looked at me.
“I’ve got something I want to show you,” I said. “Next week. It’s a shoebox. It’s got a whole lot of old notes in it. And some drawings. And a story I think you’d like, about a woman named
Rose.”
He smiled. It was a small, surprised smile. The kind you give when you realize someone has been paying attention.
“Thursday?” he asked.
“Thursday,” I said.
On my way out, I stopped by his hall table and took out a pen and a piece of paper, and I
wrote him a note. It’s a habit now. I can’t help it.
Mr. Dean — Your tomato plants look thirsty. I watered them. See you Thursday.
And then, at the bottom, I added one more line. The way someone once did for me, on a
