Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
He tightened the final screw, tapped the metal with his small ball-peen hammer, and the door swung open on its new brass hinge with a soft, clean click.
Gary did not say thank you, grab his calculus book, or even look at my father before he walked away down the hall, his brass keys jingling with every stride.
My father stayed on his knees for a long moment, his hand resting on the metal toolbox before he slowly pushed himself up to stand.
“He does not have any manners, Dad,” I said, walking over to help him lift his broom.
“He is just in a hurry to get where he is going, Nicole,” he said, leaning heavily on the wooden broom handle for support when he thought I was not looking.
By three thirty that afternoon, the hallways had emptied out, leaving only the smell of fresh lemon wax and the distant clank of the steam radiators in the walls.
I found my father sitting in his green vinyl chair in the basement custodian office, his head tilted back against the cold concrete. On the wooden shelf behind him, three industrial-sized bottles of floor wax stood next to a yellowing calendar from three years ago.
