The Last Run of Route 7

“He’s out in the garage,” she said quietly. “He’s been out there since you called. Jill, I need you to know something, and I need you not to tell him I told you.”

“Okay,” I said.

“The lot almost took our house,” Robin said. “Last year. We were two weeks from the bank taking it. He never told your dad that. He never told anybody. He’s been paying the note on the building and the house and he hasn’t taken a paycheck himself since October.”

I closed my eyes.

“Every month he didn’t pay your dad back, it got harder for him to look at him,” she said. “You’ve seen him at Christmas. He can’t even sit next to Hal at the table anymore. He’s not hiding from the money, Jill. He’s hiding from your dad’s face.”

“I didn’t know,” I said.

“Nobody knew. That’s the problem with Neal. Nobody ever knows.” She was crying a little. “I don’t know if he’ll come tomorrow. I just wanted you to know he isn’t who you think he is right now. He’s worse off than that, and he’s better than that.”

After she hung up I sat in the dark kitchen for a long time. I thought about my brother at fourteen with his cigar box of dollar bills, so proud of himself, bringing it home to show Dad.

The barn

On the last day of school, May 22nd, I took the morning off. Jeff had cleared it for me to ride along. District employees can ride with the director’s okay, and Jeff had written it on a form and signed it and handed it to me with a wink.

I was at the bus barn at 6:00. It was cool and clear, about fifty degrees, the kind of late May morning when the sun is already up over the windbreaks and the fields are that new green that only lasts two weeks.

Dad was already there. Of course he was. He was walking around the bus with a flashlight he didn’t need, doing his pretrip, checking the tires and the lights and the stop arm the way he had every morning for three years.

He was wearing the tan zip-up jacket. He has had it since before Mom died, and the cuffs are worn white, and he will not let me buy him a new one.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, squinting at me through his glasses.

“Jeff said I could ride along,” I said. “It’s your last day. I wanted to see your route.”

He looked at me for a long second. My father has a white crew cut he has worn since the Army, and when he’s thinking hard, he runs his hand back over it, front to back. He did it then.

“You’ve seen my route,” he said.

“Not with you driving it.”

He grunted, which is the most my father says about most things. Then he climbed up into the driver’s seat, adjusted his mirror, and pointed at the first seat behind him.

“Sit there,” he said. “And don’t talk to me while I’m backing out.”