…”Dorothy Pierce.”
My brother-in-law’s head snapped up. His last name is Pierce.
The man in the gray jacket kept reading. “Walt Abernathy. The Sorensen twins. Marjorie Klein. Eleven names. Eleven people on Route 9, outside Montpelier, who lived alone, or were sick, or old, and who Frank checked on every single day for thirty-eight years. Not because it was his job. Because nobody else would.”
He folded the paper and finally looked at Gavin.
“My name is Don Pierce. Dorothy was my mother. Your grandmother, Gavin. I’m your father’s older brother. We haven’t met, because your dad and I haven’t spoken in twenty years. That’s a different story.”
Gavin looked like someone had pulled the floor out from under him.
“In August 2011, Hurricane Irene washed out every road to my mother’s house. She was diabetic. She had two days of insulin left. The National Guard couldn’t get there. The fire department couldn’t get there. Your father-in-law waded down a flooded road up to his neck, holding a cooler over his head, and handed it to her through her kitchen window. Then he walked four miles home in wet clothes.”
Don turned to my dad. “She lived nine more years. She told that story to everyone. She called you ‘the mailman who swims.’ I read your name in the paper last month. ‘Frank Doyle, retiring after thirty-eight years.’ I drove three hours to say thank you.”
My dad looked down at his cup. “How’s Dorothy’s garden?” he asked. “She grew the best tomatoes on my route.”
“I keep it going,” Don said. His voice cracked. “Every summer.”
The whole hall was silent. Somebody’s kid knocked over a cup, and nobody even looked.
Gavin stood up. He didn’t say anything clever. He walked over, shook my dad’s hand and said, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Then he turned to his uncle and said, “Could I see her garden sometime?”
Don looked at him for a long moment. “Bring your dad,” he said.
Gavin did, three months later. It was the first time the two brothers had been in the same room in twenty years. My dad was there too. He brought the cake.
