Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
The sound of my father’s breathing was louder than the clanking of the steam radiators in the basement hallway. It had a dry, whistling rattle that did not belong in a man of fifty-four.
He pushed the wide dust mop over the red linoleum tiles, leaving a clean path through the gray winter grit. I sat on my heavy backpack near the boiler room door, watching the silver signet ring spin around my right pinky finger.
“I have swept these same tiles for twelve years, Nicole, and they still have plenty of shine left,” he said, his voice a low, raspy whisper.
He stopped and leaned his chest heavily against the top of the wooden broom handle. His face was the color of skim milk.
“Let me carry the bag, Dad,” I said, reaching for the nylon straps.
“No,” he said, coughing once into his blue handkerchief. “A senior preparing for college shouldn’t be hauling coal sacks.”
He swung the heavy bag onto his shoulder with a sharp grunt that made him wince.
We walked into his custodian closet, where the sharp smell of green floor wax and pine cleaner always hung thick in the air. He set my bag on a metal folding chair and reached into his vest pocket.
He pulled out his round silver pocket watch, but his hand came up empty of the heavy metal link that usually draped across his front.
“Well, look at that,” he murmured, turning the smooth metal casing over in his palm. “The chain is gone.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
He let out a dry chuckle, though his chest seemed to labor under the effort. “Must have slipped off while I was clearing the brush behind the athletic fields on Tuesday.”
He placed the chainless watch on his small wooden desk next to a jar of rusted screws.
At five o’clock, the bell in the main hallway rang three times, signaling the final lockup. Principal Bradley stood at the door of his office, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles as we walked toward the exit.
“Nicole,” Mr. Bradley said, his voice slow and measured. “Step in for a moment, please.”
