It’s been three years now.
Caleb lives with his mom in a little house six blocks from mine. He weighs ninety-four pounds. He’s in fifth grade. He plays soccer. Badly. He’s the worst kid on the team and he loves every second of it.
He calls me Uncle Mack. He calls Pike “Pop Pop” because Pike asked him to and Caleb said he’d never had one of those before.
Sarah is doing okay. She’s in school. She works at a vet clinic. She still flinches sometimes when men move too fast around her. But less. Every year, less.
Last summer we took Caleb out to Jesse’s grave for the first time. Caleb didn’t really know him. Caleb had been a baby when Jesse used to bounce him on his knee.
Pike told him the whole story. About the day Jesse drove out to see them. About the wrench. About Jesse saying “tell Mack” with his last breath.
Caleb stood there a long time. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little toy motorcycle. A Harley. He’d bought it with his own money from his allowance.
He set it on top of the headstone.
“For taking care of me,” he said. “Even when I didn’t know.”
Pike turned around so the kid wouldn’t see him cry. I didn’t bother. I let it come.
