I did not understand.
Frank stared toward the chain-link fence.
“Not the same,” he said.
“I ain’t saying the same.
Nobody used words like spectrum where I grew up.
Maybe I was.
Maybe I wasn’t.
Doesn’t matter now.
But I didn’t talk much.
Could go weeks.
Months sometimes.
People thought I was stupid.
Teachers thought I was stubborn.
My old man thought I needed it beat out of me.”
The mug trembled again.
I said nothing.
“We lived in Barelas.
Tiny place.
Fence in back just like yours.
Man behind us had a garage.
Name was Arturo Reyes.
Fixed lawn mowers, radios, whatever people brought him.”
Frank gave a short laugh with no humor in it.
“I watched him every day.”
Something moved through me.
I looked toward our yards.
Frank continued.
“Same spot.
Same time after school.
I’d stand there holding that fence.
Didn’t talk to him.
He didn’t talk to me.”
“For how long?”
“About a year.”
He rubbed one thumb against the mug handle.
“Then one day he opened the gate.”
I felt gooseflesh rise along my arms.
Frank noticed.
“Yeah,” he said.
“That’s why.”
He told me Arturo had never called him over.
Never tried to make him speak.
He had simply opened the gate, returned to his workbench, and placed a screwdriver halfway across the floor.
Frank had stared at it for almost ten minutes.
Then he walked inside.
“First thing I ever asked that man,” Frank said, “was if I could help.”
My throat closed.
“Those exact words?”
Frank looked at me then.
“Close enough.”
He stood abruptly and disappeared inside his house.
For a moment I thought the conversation was over.
Then he came back carrying a small photograph.
The picture was old and faded nearly brown at the edges.
A skinny teenage boy stood beside a lawn mower with its engine housing removed.
His hair was long, his shoulders narrow, his expression intensely serious.
