One cool day in February I decided to meet the old man next door.
He'd moved in a few weeks before, and spent most of his time in the back bedroom--the one with the flowery curtains always tied open. But this afternoon he was outside, silhouetted against the red cloak of bougainvillea covering an entire wall.
I kicked my soccer ball right up against the low picket fence separating our yards, then ran to retrieve it. When I looked up our eyes locked. His eyes and mine were the same shade of green, I realized. In a weird way it was like looking at some part of myself. He stopped digging around his five spindly, ancient rose bushes, and I looked away, a finger tracing and retracing the lines on my soccer ball.
"Well, well. I wondered when I'd meet you, my boy," he said. "I'm Dr. Hefford."
"I'm Eddie," I whispered, suddenly shy. We nodded at one another. I stared at his wrinkles--wrinkles that went on forever, marching through his face and up his totally bald head like stairs. If people were given a wrinkle for every year they lived, I thought, then this guy must be a hundred. Maybe older.
"My mom says you used to be a teacher," I mumbled.
"Yes. I retired last year. I moved here to take care of my wife, Samantha. She's ill." Dr. Hefford nodded toward the flowery curtains. "Do you have a father, Eddie?"
Doesn't everyone?, I wanted to shout. I wasn't above such outbursts--even then, at age twelve. But I held back. Something about this man commanded respect. I simply nodded, adding, "He's not living here right now. Not since last month."
"Why isn't he home?" The question seemed cruel, but his tone was caring. The green eyes glittered. He set his trowel on the earth as if laying down a gauntlet.
"...'cause my mom argues with him a lot and 'cause I'm kind of a problem kid, I guess," I blurted. It was a response I hadn't known was inside me.
"See this earth, Eddie?" he asked, seizing the handle of his spade. "Nothing wants to grow here. But I'll get these roses to grow and bloom because Samantha has always loved roses. I will find a way."
He dug up chunks of clay, diced them into clots, then stabbed those until they became fine as sand.
"If you're going to make sacrifices, you can have anything. I was set on my path by an extraordinary history teacher. She made me see teaching as the most noble thing a person could do. That became my goal. After much hardship, I achieved it, and taught many young people such as yourself. And now...I guess it's these roses."
I rolled the ball under my tennis shoe. Had I ever had a goal? Besides, maybe, beating the newest computer game? Or the glorious June goal of summer vacation?
The doctor studied me. "Make you a deal, Eddie. It's the beginning of the growing season. My goal is to get these roses blooming for Sam. What's yours?"
"To have Mom and Dad home. Living together," I blurted. I brushed away the tears which had traitorously formed in my eyes.
"Fine. Let's let nothing get in the way of what we wish to achieve," he said. When he smiled, a gold tooth winked at me from the side of his mouth. He wiped clay-caked fingers on his jeans and extended his hand. I shook it as if I'd been doing just that all my life. In reality, it was the first adult's hand I had ever clasped in mine.
I went home feeling changed...respected, understood. I'd been given the notion I might have some power over my life after all. That's an odd feeling for a kid. That night I hardly slept for dreaming of how I might put this newfound potential to work.
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