Walter looked down at him.
“I wasn’t sure I belonged on this side of the door.”
Mason shrugged.
“You do now.”
Children can destroy fifty years of psychological architecture in six words.
Walter had to look away.
Dinner was spaghetti.
Garlic bread.
Salad nobody except Linda ate willingly.
The first fifteen minutes were awkward.
Then Mason asked whether Walter had ever jumped from an airplane.
No.
Had Frank?
No.
Did they have tanks?
Sometimes nearby.
Did Walter shoot bad guys?
Linda stopped him.
“No war questions.”
Walter surprised himself.
“It’s okay.”
But he answered carefully.
He did not turn combat into entertainment.
He talked about heat.
Mud.
Building roads.
Bad coffee.
Frank cheating at cards.
That interested the children more.
“Grandpa cheated?”
Sophie asked.
“Constantly.”
Linda laughed.
“That sounds right.”
Walter continued.
“Worst poker face I ever saw.”
“Then how did he cheat?”
“He wasn’t good at it.”
By dessert, Walter was telling them about Frank trying to cook eggs in a field ration tin and burning everything except the water.
Linda listened.
She had never heard these stories.
Her father had returned from Vietnam and built a wall between before and after.
Walter was opening small windows.
Not into the worst parts.
The human ones.
The twenty-year-old Frank.
The stupid jokes.
The borrowed cigarettes.
The songs he sang badly.
The photograph of a girl named Mary he carried in a plastic sleeve.
Linda’s mother.
Linda started crying quietly.
Walter stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
She wiped her face.
“Keep going.”
So he did.
That dinner changed the pattern.
Walter still helped.
But differently.
He came on Sundays.
Sometimes carrying groceries.
Sometimes nothing.
Linda eventually allowed him to pay for Mason’s new glasses after Walter negotiated terms that required Mason to help rake leaves.
Sophie baked him terrible cookies.
He ate every one.
Jacob began visiting Walter after school.
At first, history questions.
Then other things.
College.
Work.
Cars.
Girls.
Walter claimed expertise in only cars.
Linda stopped receiving anonymous envelopes.
Instead, if she was short, she told Walter sometimes.
Not always.
He learned not to solve everything.
That was harder than giving money.
When Linda said:
“I’ve got it.”
Walter practiced believing her.
The grocery-store incident might have become a small unpleasant memory if Evan had not eventually told Linda how it started.
She stared at Walter.
“Your card declined?”
“Temporary bank issue.”
“You had cash.”
“Evan talks too much.”
“You were going to let a cashier humiliate you instead of using money meant for us.”
Walter looked offended.
“I was not humiliated.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I’ve experienced worse.”
“That is not a useful standard.”
Walter disliked how much she sounded like Frank.
The next Saturday, Linda drove him to the same grocery store.
“Why are we here?”
“Shopping.”
“I can shop alone.”
“I know.”
Brent was working register six.
When he saw Walter, recognition appeared.
Then discomfort.
The store manager had apparently heard about the previous incident through another customer.
Brent had already been disciplined for how he spoke to Walter.
Linda chose his line anyway.
Walter realized too late.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Linda.”
She ignored him.
They unloaded groceries.
Normal amount this time.
Food for Walt.
Food for Brooks family dinner.
Brent scanned silently.
When it was time to pay, Walter took out his card.
Approved.