Part 7
By January, the concrete wall behind the Grafton Avenue house still stood. After Teresa recorded notice of the title dispute, the developer agreed to pause construction, and part of the identifiable sale proceeds went into escrow; the title and accounting claims remained unresolved. Jesse had given his statement and lost the fleet work he feared losing; Owen communicated through counsel.
Roy and Marianne moved into a two-bedroom apartment twelve minutes from Grafton Avenue and four minutes from their clinic. Marianne had chosen it after rejecting six others. The bathroom was accessible, the elevator worked during both inspections, and the living-room windows faced east.
On the first apartment tour, Cal arrived with a ranked list of parking distances, maintenance records, and photographed thresholds. Marianne folded it in half and told him to speak up only if a floor was about to cave in. After that, Cal drove and waited to be asked. Both parents rejected a luxury complex whose manager spoke to Cal as though they were not standing there. The place they chose had scuffed hallway paint and a superintendent who handed Roy the maintenance log without being prompted.
Roy improved in increments rather than all at once. He still needed the cane and an afternoon rest, and some mornings his breathing shortened after a shower. The blue pill cutter remained in the kitchen drawer, but changes to his medication now began with a call to the clinic instead of a calculation over the grocery bill.
By then, Cal had rented a furnished studio in Dayton through spring and arranged his Denver weeks one at a time. When work took him west, he stayed in the brick house himself. His parents could visit if they wanted, but he had stopped calling it theirs.
On a bright Saturday morning, he carried a drill case and a cedar window box down the hallway of their new building. Marianne had chosen the box herself at a garden center. The key she had given him rested in his pocket.
He knocked.
Roy opened the door with his cane hooked over one wrist. His color was better, and he could walk the length of the corridor without stopping, though longer outings still left him breathless.
“You know you have a key,” he said.
“I know.”
Roy stepped aside. “Your mother’s been moving that planter from wall to wall since seven.”
Marianne stood by the windows with a small pot cupped in both hands. Dolores had taken a living cutting from the old rosebush before the move. It had looked like a dead stick when they planted it, but one red-edged leaf had opened near the stem.
Cal lifted the cedar box. “Where do you want it?”
She pointed to the left window. “Centered under that one. High enough that your father can’t use it as a shelf for coffee.”
“That happened once,” Roy said.
“It happened this morning.”
Cal marked the first bracket, then stopped. “Here?”
Marianne studied it from the couch, made him move it half an inch, and checked again. Only when she nodded did he drill.
Roy watched the level while Cal fastened the second bracket. “Your bubble’s left.”
“It’s not.”
“I spent thirty-eight years aligning machine beds.”
“And I own the level.”
Marianne laughed from the window, a sound Cal had not heard on Grafton Avenue. He loosened the bracket and moved it the width of a pencil line.
When the box was secure, Marianne settled the rose cutting into the soil and brushed her fingers clean. “Now wash up,” she told Cal. “Breakfast is getting cold.”