Dad showed him how to prune tomatoes.
Brent brought coffee.
Dad criticized it.
One morning Brent admitted why the garden had bothered him.
“My dad’s place looked like this.”
Dad glanced around.
“No, it didn’t.”
“You didn’t see it.”
“I mean this isn’t what bothered you.”
Brent looked at him.
Dad waited.
Eventually Brent said, “My father hoarded things.”
That was the word.
Old appliances.
Cars.
Broken lawn furniture.
Stacks of lumber.
Weeds waist-high.
Neighbors complained constantly.
Brent had spent his childhood embarrassed by his own home.
“When I saw your property,” he said, “I thought disorder.”
Dad nodded.
“And when you looked at my house,” Brent added, “you probably thought arrogant idiot.”
Dad considered.
“Something like that.”
Brent laughed.
Dad did too.
People are often mysteries to one another only because nobody asks the second question.
By September, Claire had begun visiting every other weekend.
