GrownUp Games

The sprinkler was making that rhythmic *chk-chk-chk* sound again, the one that meant the seal was going. I'd fixed it twice already. Third time meant a new one, and I wasn't in the mood to drive to the hardware store. I was in the mood to sit on the porch with a glass of iced tea and watch the grass grow. That's what fifty-three gets you. A deep appreciation for grass.

My phone buzzed. Katie.

*You still alive?*

That was her way. No *hello*, no *how are you*. Just a blunt check-in, like a nurse doing rounds. I typed back: *Define alive.*

*Breathing. Eating. Not talking to the dog.*

I looked at Rufus. He was sprawled on the doormat, tongue lolling, one eye cracked open like he was eavesdropping. I hadn't talked to him today. Yesterday I'd asked him if he thought I should sell the house. He hadn't answered.

*Alive enough,* I wrote.

*Good. I'm coming over Saturday. Bringing sandwiches.*

That was Katie. No question. No *is that okay*. She'd decided, and the decision was already a fact, like weather. I set the phone down and watched a blue jay bully a robin off the feeder. The robin didn't fight. Just hopped to the ground and pecked at whatever the jay had knocked loose. Smart bird. Know when you're beat.

Saturday came hot and bright. The kind of morning that makes you squint before you've had coffee. I was on the porch when her car pulled in, a silver sedan with a dent in the rear bumper she'd never bothered to fix. She got out carrying a paper bag and a six-pack of something. Root beer. She remembered.

"You look thin," she said, climbing the steps.

"I look the same."

"No, you look thin. You're not eating."

"I eat."

"You eat cereal for dinner. I know you."

She set the bag on the table and pulled out sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. Turkey and Swiss on rye. My favorite since I was nine. She'd cut them diagonal, the way Mom used to.

We ate without talking for a while. The sprinkler *chk-chk-chk*ed in the background. A neighbor's dog barked. Katie finished her sandwich first, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and leaned back in the chair.

"Remember the fort?" she said.

I did. The fort we built in the ravine behind the old house. Three summers in a row, we'd hauled scrap wood and old blankets down there, made a roof out of a tarp we'd stolen from Dad's shed. We called it Fort Apache. I was the general. She was the scout. We had rules. No girls allowed except her. No adults ever.

"Yeah," I said.

"I drove by the old place last week. The ravine's gone. They filled it in. Put up a fence."

Something in my chest tightened. Not grief exactly. More like a door closing somewhere far away.

"That was a good fort," I said.

"Best fort."

She was quiet for a minute. Then she said, "I miss playing."

I looked at her. Fifty years old, gray at the temples, lines around her mouth from two decades of teaching middle school. She looked tired. But her eyes had that glint, the one she used to get right before we'd ambush the neighbor kids with water balloons.

"Playing what?" I asked.

"Anything. Everything. I don't know." She picked at the napkin. "I haven't played in years. Not since Tom died. Not since the kids grew up. I just... I work. I come home. I grade papers. I watch TV. And I keep thinking, when did I stop?"

I didn't have an answer. I'd stopped too. Somewhere between the funeral and the first anniversary, I'd packed up the board games and the playing cards and put them in the attic. I hadn't thought about it. Just did it. Like turning off a light.

"We could play something now," I said.

She laughed. "Like what? Checkers?"

"Sure. Why not."

"You don't have checkers."

"I have cards."

She looked at me like I'd suggested we rob a bank. Then she smiled. "Go get them."

I went inside, dug through the junk drawer, found a deck of cards held together by a rubber band so old it snapped when I touched it. I brought them out. Katie shuffled. She was always better at shuffling. Her hands moved fast, practiced, like she'd been doing it her whole life. Maybe she had. Maybe we both had, and just forgot.

"Gin rummy?" she said.

"Sure."

We played. First hand, she won. Second hand, I won. Third hand, she slapped down her cards and said, "You're cheating."

"I'm not cheating."

"You're counting cards."

"It's gin rummy. Everyone counts cards."

She threw a napkin at me. I caught it. She laughed, a real laugh, the kind that came from her belly. I hadn't heard that laugh in years. It sounded like the old house. Like the ravine. Like Fort Apache.

We played until the sun moved behind the trees. The iced tea went warm. The sprinkler kept *chk-chk-chk*ing. And somewhere in the middle of the fifth hand, I realized I was having fun. Actual fun. The kind I hadn't felt since before Ellen got sick. Since before the hospital, the hospice, the quiet mornings alone.

Katie laid down her cards. "I win."

"You always win."

"Because I'm better."

"Because you cheat."

She grinned. Then she stood up and stretched. "Same time next week?"

I should have said yes. Instead, I said, "What if we did something else?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Something we used to do."

She looked at me. The glint was back. "Like what?"

I thought about it. The fort was gone. The ravine was filled in. We were too old for water balloons. But there was something else. Something we used to do when the fort got boring. When the summer got too hot and the days got too long.

"Remember the creek?" I said.

"The one behind the church?"

"Yeah. We used to catch crawdads."

"We used to *try* to catch crawdads. We never caught any."

"We caught one."

"We caught a stick."

"It moved."

"It was the current."

I laughed. She laughed. And for a second, we were nine and ten again, barefoot in the mud, the world small and bright and full of things to do.

"Okay," she said. "Crawdads. Next Saturday."

"Deal."

She gathered her things. At the door, she turned. "You know, Chris, you're different."

"Different how?"

"Lighter. You were heavy for a while. Now you're lighter."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I said, "You too."

She nodded. Then she left. The silver sedan pulled out of the driveway, turned onto the road, disappeared. I stood on the porch for a long time. Rufus came over and leaned against my leg. I scratched his ear.

"Looks like we're catching crawdads," I said.

He didn't answer. But he wagged his tail.