The Second Plate
I learned that he liked his toast nearly black and hated being pulled from chairs.
I announced myself before entering rooms, stopped moving objects without warning him, and offered my arm instead of grabbing his.
Every Tuesday, I accompanied him to eye treatments.
His doctors hoped he might recover some useful vision, although Mr. Howard called the appointments expensive exercises in disappointment.
He never missed one.
His late wife’s pale-blue slippers remained beside his bed.
The first time I moved them to clean, he turned sharply toward me.
“I may not see much, boy, but I heard you move those slippers. Put them back.”
I returned them.
“Sorry, sir.”
He bent down and nudged one slipper until it sat crooked beside the other.
“Eleanor never left them straight.”
After that, I cleaned around them.
One evening, I found two plates on the dining table.
“Margaret set that,” Mr. Howard muttered.
Margaret passed the doorway carrying laundry.
“No, I didn’t.”
He scowled in her direction. “Nobody asked you.”
I sat before he could remove the second plate.
He criticized the potatoes, then pushed the larger piece of chicken toward me when he thought I was not looking.
Small kindnesses began appearing where neither of us had to name them.
A travel mug showed up beside the door on mornings I left early for the hospital.
Once Mr. Howard asked me why I was silent.
When I told him I was examining the worn sole of my shoe, he complained that my squeaking disturbed his concentration and ordered Margaret to add a footwear allowance to my next check.
“This isn’t charity,” he warned.
“Of course not, sir. It’s noise control.”
The corner of his mouth moved before he hid it behind his coffee cup.
In return, I began reading the sports page aloud each morning.
He interrupted every third paragraph to correct the columnist, argue with statistics he could not see, or tell me how much better the Marines would have managed the team’s defense.
Those mornings became the safest part of my week.
May you like
At his table, I was not an inmate or the desperate son who had failed to fix everything.
I was simply Kevin, making terrible coffee according to a man who always finished the cup.
