Free In Mike We Trust by P. E. Ryan Page B

here.”
    They rode along in silence for a mile or so. The sky was bright and clear, the sun burning through the windshield despite the car’s air-conditioning.
    â€œWould you mind if we…?”
    â€œNo, it’s fine,” Garth said. He’d been half expecting the request. “I can tell you how to get there.”
    They passed the turnoff for the mall and drove up Monument till they reached Three Chopt Road. Ten minutes and a few turns later, they were at the entrance.
    Garth had been out here with his mom frequently, at first, and then once a month since she’d taken on the second job. It wasn’t a fancy, old-fashioned cemetery. It was clean and meticulously laid out and overwhelmingly level—as if someone had steamrolled the land before digging the first grave. There were very few upright headstones; most were just flat marble markers with brass plates, barely visible from a distance. Mike slowed the Camaro to a crawl and followed Garth’s directions for which lane to take.
    â€œIt’s right here,” he said, and they rolled to a stop.
    â€œHard to recognize the spot without the canopy and folding chairs,” Mike remarked, peering through Garth’s window.
    They got out, and were immediately engulfed in heat. Garth knew the way by heart: five markers over, four in. Then they were standing in front of the marble square fixed with the brass plate that bore his dad’s name. The brief thirty-five years his life had spanned. The engraved phrase that they couldn’t afford but thathis mom had insisted on adding: LOVING HUSBAND, DAD, AND FRIEND .
    The two of them stood at the foot of the grave in silence for a little while. Then Mike said, in a soft, uncharacteristic voice, “Hi, Jer.”
    â€œHe can’t hear you,” Garth said, embarrassed by his uncle’s presumption that he could just “talk” to his dad so easily.
    â€œI know whatever’s in there can’t hear me,” Mike said. “But that doesn’t mean he isn’t”—he stirred the warm air with a finger, indicating the cemetery, the surrounding suburb, the whole world, for all Garth knew—“listening.” He cleared his throat and said, “Anyway, Jer, I came through town for a visit, and Sonja and Garth have been nice enough to take me in. They’re doing great, by the way. I think your boy’s grown a couple of inches.”
    He’s lying to the dead, Garth thought. For his sake or his dad’s? He stepped around the grave to the marker, bent down, and began pulling at the weeds that had grown up around the base.
    â€œI’m sorry we didn’t always get along, Jer. I think about you a lot. If I’d had any idea something was going to happen to…erase…either one of us so suddenly, I would have, you know, made more of an effort to stay in touch. Keep on good terms. I don’t know.I guess you just can’t predict anything. You take the most important things for granted without even knowing you’re doing it.”
    Garth stood up and dusted his hands together. When he looked back at his uncle, he saw that his eyes had gone damp.
    Mike dragged a thumb over each eye and said, “I’m sorry.”
    Should he take his hand? Hug him? Garth had never thought much about it before, but he wasn’t very good with physical contact—or hadn’t been for the past year and a half. When people touched him, he tended to flinch. When he felt moved to touch someone else—even his mom—he did so awkwardly. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said.
    Mike sniffed. “I, ah, wasn’t talking to you.”
    â€œOh. Sorry.”
    His uncle smiled. “ You don’t have to apologize, either. None of this is easy…”
    Garth nodded. “Mr. Holt is buried over there,” he said, pointing to a marker several rows over.
    â€œWho’s Mr. Holt?”
    â€œThe other man.