The Ramp My Brother Built for Dad

He set it down next to Dad’s wheelchair, facing the lake.

“Mr. Rader,” Hal said. “Can I get you a brat? They’re about done.” He said it like it was any Fourth of July. Like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Dad looked up at him. “I’d like that, Sergeant,” he said. Hal’s eyes went wet, and he went and got a plate.

I don’t know how Dad knew Hal was a sergeant. Maybe Terry told him years ago. Maybe it was the way Hal stood.

Old soldiers know each other. I’ve seen it on my unit at the hospital a hundred times.

Hal sat with Dad for an hour. He cut Dad’s brat into small pieces without asking and without making a thing of it.

They talked about Fort Polk, where they’d both done training thirty years apart, and about the heat there.

The party went on, after a while. It had to. There were kids on the dock and a cooler of pop and a tub of watermelon.

People sat back down. Somebody turned the music up a little.

But the men kept coming over to the railing, one or two at a time. They shook Dad’s hand, slowly, so as not to hurt it. One of them said, “Thank you for your service, sir.” Dad said, “Thank you for coming over.”

Jolie went inside. I didn’t follow her. Through the window I could see her standing at the kitchen sink with both hands on the edge of the counter, not moving.

Terry stayed on the picnic bench a long time. Then he got up and went down the ramp and walked to the end of the dock by himself and stood there with his back to everyone.

At four thirty, I knelt down by Dad’s chair. “We should start back, Dad,” I said. “Your six o’clock pill. And I want to have you home before dark.”

He nodded. “In a minute,” he said. “Go get your brother.”

I walked down the ramp and across the lawn to the dock. Terry heard me coming on the boards and didn’t turn around. The water slapped against the posts.

“Dad wants you,” I said.

He turned. His eyes were red, and he looked older than fifty. “Stace,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to me. I swear I don’t.”

“I know you didn’t plan it,” I said. “I think it got away from you one month at a time. But he wore two shirts, Terry. Two shirts. For two and a half years.”

He nodded. He didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything about paperwork. He walked up the lawn and up his own ramp for the first time with his father at the top of it.

He knelt down next to Dad’s wheelchair. He’s a big man, and it took him a while to get down there.

Dad put his shaking hand on the back of Terry’s neck, the way he used to when we were little and had done something wrong.

“You’re going to fix it,” Dad said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, sir,” Terry said. “I’m going to fix it.”

“Good,” Dad said. “Then help your sister get me down this ramp. It’s good work, son. Shame to waste it.”

Terry stood up. He took the handles of Dad’s wheelchair from me.