I didn’t think of it as anything special. It was just what I did on Sundays.
***
Claire and I got married when I was 38, and she noticed how special my Sundays with Ezra were.
“You’re going over there again?” she asked one morning, half-teasing, half not.
“It’s an hour. Maybe two.”
We said almost nothing.
“You’re really going to keep doing this every week? For years?” my wife asked.
“Ezra doesn’t have anyone else,” I protested.
Claire softened then, the way she always did, and handed me a tin of the cookies she’d baked the night before.
“Take these to him. And tell him I said hello.”
I did.
***
Ezra held the tin as if it were something precious and asked me three times to thank her.
That was the Sunday he mentioned Marcus again, the one who only called when something was wrong with his car, his rent, or some scheme that needed a small loan.
“Take these to him.”
“Marcus came by last month,” Ezra said, stirring his coffee in slow circles. “Asked me what I was planning to do with the house.”
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“I told him I was planning to keep living in it.”
He smiled at that, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. I left it at that.
I left that afternoon thinking I should bring Claire and introduce her properly. Ezra would’ve liked that, but I never got the chance.
“What did you tell him?”
***
I noticed the porch light first.
