The next afternoon, I heard Tommy’s oversized shoes before I saw him.
They made a soft, uneven sound against the concrete outside the shop.
Then the door opened.
Tommy stood there with one hand on the handle and the other tucked inside his jacket pocket.
“Hi, Bear.”
“Hey, Tommy. Come on in.”
He stepped inside, but he didn’t head straight for the crooked wooden chair.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Usually, he looked at the chair before anything else, as if he needed to make sure it was still there.
That afternoon, he looked at the floor.
Tiny was feeding Buddy behind the shop, and Tank had a motorcycle open on the lift.
Wheels was sorting bolts into little plastic containers.
Everything was ordinary.
I had learned that ordinary could be a good thing for Tommy.
“Where’s your notebook?” I asked.
Tommy touched his jacket pocket.
“Home.”
“That's okay.”
“I didn't forget it.”
“I didn't think you did.”
He watched me for a moment, checking whether I meant it.
Then he walked over to the workbench and stood beside me.
“I don't want to draw today.”
“You don't have to.”
“I don't want to fix anything either.”
“That's fine, too.”
He looked at the motorcycle on the lift.
“Tank has a lot to do.”
Tank glanced over his shoulder.
“Motorcycles are patient. They don't mind waiting.”
Tommy considered that.
“People don't always wait.”
Tank set down his wrench.
“No, they don't. But we're trying to get better at it.”
Tommy nodded as if he had been given something important to think about.
Then he walked to his chair.
It creaked when he sat down.
He pressed both hands against the wooden arms and looked around the shop.
I returned to the workbench without asking him what was wrong.
There were days when questions helped.
There were other days when questions felt like another job somebody expected him to do.
I didn't want him to believe he had to explain every feeling before he was allowed to sit with us.
For several minutes, the only sounds were tools, the radio, and Wheels complaining about a bolt that refused to cooperate.
“This bolt has personal problems,” Wheels announced.
“Maybe it doesn't like you,” Tommy said.
Wheels stopped.
Tank laughed first.
Tiny came through the side door just in time to hear the end of it.
“What happened?”
“Tommy says the bolt doesn't like me.”
Tiny looked at the bolt.
“Can't blame it.”
Wheels put a hand over his heart.
“I bring joy into this building, and this is how I'm treated.”
Tommy smiled.
It was small, but it was real.
Then the smile faded, and he looked down at his shoes.
I kept working.
I was learning that Tommy's sadness didn't always mean something new had happened.
Sometimes he missed his mother because he remembered her voice.
Sometimes he missed her because another child mentioned a mother at school.
Sometimes he missed her because the light fell across the floor in a way that reminded him of their old kitchen.
And sometimes he missed her for no reason he could explain.
That last kind seemed to trouble him most.
He wanted sadness to have a reason he could point to.
He wanted somebody to tell him how to make it stop.
But grief wasn't a broken motorcycle.
There wasn't always a loose part I could tighten.
After a while, Tommy spoke from the chair.
“Bear?”
“I'm listening.”
“Can people like you when you're not talking?”
I put down my wrench.
“Absolutely.”
“What if you don't smile?”
“Still can.”
“What if you just sit?”
I looked at the chair.
“Especially then.”
He rubbed the toe of one oversized shoe against the floor.
“My aunt said I was quiet this morning.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you want to talk?”
He shook his head.
“Then being quiet sounds like what you needed.”
He stared at the floor for a few seconds.
“I thought maybe she was tired of me.”
That sentence landed harder than he probably knew.
I had heard grown men say the same thing in different words.
They worried that their grief made them difficult to love.
They worried that their silence made them inconvenient.
They worried that being sad for too long would eventually cost them the people they needed.
Tommy was seven.
He should not have had to carry that fear.
But he did.
“Tommy,” I said, “your aunt can get tired. Everybody gets tired. That doesn't mean she's tired of you.”
“How do you know?”
“I don't know every thought she has. But I know she's trying, and I know she came here yesterday to make things right with you.”
He remembered that.
“She hugged me.”
“She did.”
“And she said sorry.”
“That's right.”
Tommy looked toward the door.
“Maybe she was still tired today.”
“Maybe she was.”
He considered it.
“Can she be tired and still love me?”
“Yes, buddy.”
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he asked, “Can you?”
I knew what he meant.
“Can I get tired and still like having you here?”
He nodded.
“Of course I can.”
I pulled a stool over and sat where he could see me.
“Some days I'll be tired. Some days Tank will be tired. Wheels is tired whenever he has to clean anything.”
“That's not true,” Wheels called from across the shop.
“It is absolutely true,” Tank answered.
Tommy gave a little laugh.
I continued.
“But you don't have to make us happy every minute. You don't have to tell jokes or fix things or draw pictures. You can have a quiet day, and you'll still have your place here.”
He looked at the chair beneath him.
“Even if I don't do anything?”
“Even then.”
He leaned back.
The chair creaked again.
“Okay.”
That was all he said.
It was enough.
A little later, Tiny returned with Buddy following him through the side door.
Buddy's white paw was muddy.
Tommy watched the dog sniff around the shop.
“Buddy had a hard day,” he said.
Tiny looked at the muddy paw.
“Buddy had a hard five minutes. He found a puddle.”
Tommy smiled again.
“Can he sit with me?”
“Buddy can sit wherever he wants,” Tiny said. “But he might try to steal your shoes.”
Tommy looked down at his feet.
“They're too big for him.”
“That has never stopped a determined dog.”
Tiny wiped Buddy's paw with an old towel before letting him approach.
Buddy rested his head against Tommy's knee.
Tommy placed a hand on the dog's back.
For a while, neither of them moved.
I watched from the workbench.
The afternoon sun came through the front windows and settled over the cardboard shelf.
Four drawings were still taped there.
The bikers.
The old house and the yellow sun.
The shop with the open door.
The chair where Tommy sat when he was sad.
Tommy followed my eyes.
“My pictures are still there.”
“They haven't moved.”
“Even the sad one?”
“Especially the sad one.”
He rubbed Buddy's back.
“Maybe I'll draw tomorrow.”
“Maybe you will.”
“Maybe I won't.”
“That's okay, too.”
He seemed pleased that I hadn't tried to turn tomorrow into a promise.
When Helen arrived, she found Tommy sitting with Buddy beside his chair.
She stopped just inside the door.
“Hello, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Aunt Helen.”
She looked at the dog.
“Is that Buddy?”
Tommy nodded.
“He had a muddy paw.”
“I can see that.”
“Tiny cleaned it.”
Tiny lifted the towel.
“Best dog-cleaning service in town.”
Helen smiled, then looked at Tommy again.
“How was your afternoon?”
Tommy thought about it.
“I didn't draw.”
“All right.”
“I didn't fix anything.”
“That's all right, too.”
“I was quiet.”
Helen's expression changed slightly.
She glanced at me, then returned her attention to Tommy.
“Were you?”
He nodded.
“Bear said people can like you when you're quiet.”
Helen swallowed.
For a moment, I thought she might start explaining herself.
Instead, she walked over and knelt beside the chair.
“I like you when you're quiet,” she told him. “I like you when you're talking, too. I like you when you're happy, and I like you when you're sad.”
Tommy watched her face.
“Even when you're tired?”
“Even when I'm tired.”
“Even when you get mad?”
Helen took a breath.
“Even then. But if I get mad and speak to you in a way that hurts your feelings, I need to try to make it right.”
Tommy considered this.
“Like saying sorry?”
“Like saying sorry.”
“And hugging?”
“If you want a hug.”
He held out his arms.
Helen hugged him beside the chair.
She didn't rush him away from the moment.
She didn't tell him he was fine.
She simply held him until he was ready to let go.
When she stood, she looked at me.
“Thank you.”
I shook my head.
“He did the hard part.”
Tommy looked confused.
“What hard part?”
“Coming in on a quiet day,” I said.
He thought about that, then took Helen's hand.
At the door, he turned around.
“Can I come back?”
Helen squeezed his hand.
“We'll keep working out your afternoons.”
Tommy looked at me.
“Will the chair still be here?”
“It's not going anywhere.”
He nodded.
Then he left with Helen, his oversized shoes making that same uneven sound on the pavement.
I watched them cross Riverside Avenue.
I didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
But I knew one thing.
Tommy had come to the shop without his notebook, without a drawing, and without anything to offer us.
He had sat in his chair and asked whether we could still like him.
And the answer had remained the same.
Click here to continue reading: PART 18: When Helen Asked What Tommy Actually Did at the Shop, I Told Her About the Small Things That Were Slowly Changing Both of Them
The Little Boy Behind the Window Had Lost His Mother, and None of Us Knew What He Was Waiting to Ask
Part 17 of 20
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