Chapter 24: The Last Text

We got married on the second Saturday of June, in the backyard on Pruitt Street.

My father had mowed the lawn twice.

My mother had hung paper lanterns in the maple tree and then taken half of them down.

The neighbor from across the street sat in the second row of folding chairs in a hat the size of a dinner plate, accepting compliments.

At the back, by the fence, stood a short, square woman in her good dress.

Toby's mother had sent a toolbox as a gift, with a note taped to the lid.

The note said: For the house you'll buy. Come by the store.

Lena's parents were back from their cruise, sunburned and talkative.

Her father had cried twice before noon and blamed the pollen.

I stood in the kitchen in my suit, looking at the back door.

My father came in and shut it behind him.

"Your tie's crooked," he said.

"It's the same tie as always."

"That's why." He fixed it with thick, careful fingers. "Hold still."

He took something out of his jacket pocket.

It was a fold of four crisp hundred-dollar bills.

"Dad."

"For the honeymoon. Don't tell your mother."

"I heard that," my mother said from the hallway.

She came in wearing the blue dress she had bought in March and returned twice.

She put both hands on my face.

"You look like your grandfather," she said. "He'd be proud."

"I'm just standing in a yard."

"You're standing in it on purpose. That's the part that counts."

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