The Sign on the Horseshoe Pit Post

The Week

That week was a long one.

I ran my route every day, up and down the county roads with a load of propane, and I thought about Rudy more than I wanted to.

Some of the family called my wife. A couple of them said the sign was a little much. Most of them said it was about time.

My wife told all of them the same thing: that it was not meant to be mean, and it was not.

Rudy did not call. He did not call her, and he did not call me.

My wife thought about calling him a dozen times. Every time she picked up the phone, she set it back down.

“Let him come,” she said Wednesday at supper. “He’ll come Sunday. He always comes Sunday.”

Rudy has come out for Sunday dinner every week since my wife’s mother passed, four years ago this October.

He sits at the head of the table, which is my chair, and I let him. He eats two helpings of whatever she makes and complains about the coffee.

Gideon did not ask about his grandpa all week.

He went out after chores every day and pitched with Great-Grandpa’s shoes, and every day, before he came in, he stopped at the post and read the names again.

On Thursday, I came home and found him standing at the post with his hand flat on the board, like you would put your hand on a horse.

I did not say anything. I just went inside.

Friday night he asked me, “Is Grandpa Rudy mad at me?”

“No,” I said. “He’s mad at himself. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Gideon thought about it. “I don’t want him to be sad,” he said. “I just wanted him to say good game.”

I had to go out to the shop for a while after that.