“So?”
“So people usually get paid for work.”
Noah shrugged.
“He can’t do it.”
Apparently, in Noah’s mind, that settled everything.
Mr. Vance was not much of a conversationalist, and Noah wasn’t exactly one either.
Sometimes I would watch from our front window as Noah finished mowing, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his T-shirt, and walked toward the porch.
Mr. Vance would say something.
Noah would answer.
Then they’d stand there in silence for several minutes.
When Noah came home, I’d ask, “What did you two talk about?”
“Nothing.”
“You stood there for ten minutes.”
“Yeah.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it’s hot.”
“And?”
“I said yeah.”
That was apparently a complete conversation between them.
Still, Noah never missed a Saturday unless we were out of town.
He went through brutal summer heat.
Cold October mornings.
Light rain.
Exam weeks.
The Saturday before finals.
