“Are you going to keep being friends with my dad?”
“No,” I said. “I’m just working on his yard. For money.”
“He’s a piece of crap,” Drew said. “He’s a liar. Don’t fall for it.”
“I’m almost done with the job,” I said. “He said he’s getting some trees.”
“It’s all a lie,” Drew said. “He makes things up. He’s full of shit.”
The urge to defend Mr. Reuter came unexpectedly. I disassembled it, thinking of my vulnerable position.
“Look,” I said, “I’m almost done with the job.”
“Go ahead and finish it,” he said. “You don’t know him like I do. He only hired you because he thought we were still friends. He thought I’d come over to hang out with you. Trust me. Those trees aren’t on their way. That money isn’t on its way. He makes every-fucking-thing up.”
A moment passed where neither of us said anything. Kids walked by in groups of two and three. He backed up.
For some stupid reason, I said, “Thank you.”
IX. ADDING THE FORMER MRS. REUTER TO THE “PESTER” LIST
I added her in red because I assumed that Drew’s negative portrayal of his father stemmed from her own broken and cyclically reassessed misunderstanding of their relationship.
Let him make up his own mind, I scribbled next to her entry.
X. BACK TO WORK: A GUIDE
That Saturday I headed across the street early in the morning. The sun had been up for less than an hour, but the heat started climbing without much of a wait. I held on to a yardstick I’d sneaked home from school, and took a look at the bigger side of the lawn to survey the extent of work that loomed ahead of me. Mr. Reuter had stopped caring for the grass weeks ago. By now, shaggy but burnt, the lawn looked like a field of wheat you might find behind a baseball fence someplace in the middle of the country. I could have turned and looked at the face of my house, but standing there in that yellow plot, holding this basic tool that was supposed to help me make some sort of difference, I felt suddenly that I was as far from home as I’d ever been.
The garage door opened. Inside, Mr. Reuter held on to its red rope above his head. He said, “You’re early.”
“I thought I could beat the heat,” I said.
“Ah,” he said. “I remember when I first learned how impossible that is out here.” He looked around, past me. “You alone?”
“I am,” I said. “Drew couldn’t make it.”
“Is that so?”
“Well,” I said, “he said he’s busy.”
“Is that so?” he said again. He batted the red rope for some time. “His mother,” he managed to get out.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s my guess, too. Anyway, I’m about to measure the lawn.”
“What a thing to say,” he said wistfully, as in a daydream. I thought he was upset with me for mentioning his ex-wife. But he was talking about something else entirely.
“You expect the word ‘mow’ there, don’t you?” he said. “And your word — what was it, ‘measure’?—your word just takes its place so sneakily. ‘I’m about to measure the lawn,’ you said. What a thing to say.”
“That is funny,” I said, not knowing how to respond. What was funnier, I thought, was that I was using a yardstick to measure the yard. I kept the joke to myself.
“About Drew,” Mr. Reuter said, “you’re sure he’s not coming? Today, I mean.”
“Mr. Reuter,” I said, leveling with him the way a man should level with another man. “Drew doesn’t trust you. He’s never coming back here, I think you should know.”
“Well,” he said. He cracked his knuckles and let all the air out of his nose. “You’ve got a lot of work to do.” He pulled down on the rope until he disappeared.
That last thing he said was true: In order to measure and carve out a near-perfect circle in a front lawn with the equipment afforded to me, you need patience. First you have to lay the yardstick along the border of the grass and the sidewalk. From the smaller side of the lawn, composed now just of dirt, collect a handful of small rocks, most of which will crumble in your hand if you make a fist over them. As you pivot the yardstick along the length of each side of the big lawn, place one of those soft rocks at every point for measuring purposes. Then do the math to figure that the yard spreads out just over fourteen feet wide and about twelve feet up to the house from the sidewalk. The paved walkway up to the front door changes the shape of the lawn to something a bit more geometrically complicated. Basically, though, you’re off to a good start. The next step would be to find the center of the lawn. There, step on your shovel a couple of times to mark an X. Use the yardstick again from the center to a number of equidistant points in different directions. Leave enough room to make arcs between those points to complete the circle. Keep using those soft rocks to mark your points. Gather more if you have to.
Take a break for water. Drink just a little from the pitcher; leave plenty for later. Sing a dumb song you’ve made up: Thirsty from the sun, and work’s just begun.
Now you’re ready to dig.
XI. ON THE ACT OF FINISHING
I can’t remember the last plunge I took with the shovel on that lawn. What I can remember is the first time I saw the end closing in on me. I laughed out loud. Nothing maniacal, just a single bark of joy escaped. I startled myself with it. You can blame the heat or the overinflated importance of completion to a twelve-year-old kid with low self-esteem. Either way, I laughed, and kept digging until the digging was done.
I went to the front door to bring Mr. Reuter outside. I knocked and waited. I rang the doorbell, looking over my shoulder at the circle of dirt I’d created. The circle wasn’t perfect from an aerial view, but its mistakes were subtle, and its positioning was centered well. Corners of yellow grass still hung around the circle’s edges. That was an easy fix, I figured, once the trees and their protective shade came into place.
Beyond the yard I saw my own house. Its grass had become overgrown in my time across the street.
My knocking turned violent. In the window, I could see Mr. Reuter’s shadow pacing back and forth. I yelled his name. I said, “I know you’re in there!”—which, because I’d heard it so many times in movies and TV shows, came out flawlessly. Finally I moved around to the driveway, where the pitcher, now empty, sat on its oil stain. I waited for some time, a good amount of time. I kicked the garage door. A car passed while I did it.
XII. THE CLOSEST I’D EVER BEEN TO A FISTFIGHT (UPDATED)
I saw Drew at school the next week. I went over to him at lunch and said, in front of all his friends, “You were right. Your dad is an asshole.”
He punched me in the eye.
XIII. THE FLOTILLA LANDS ON COMSTOCK AVENUE
Before giving up, I tried Mr. Reuter a few more times with no success. Some weeks passed. In that time, I’d explained the black eye to my parents by saying a girl at school had accidentally opened a door in my face. Even my mother, the amateur journalist, was too embarrassed for me to ask any follow-up questions.