rundown of his days, a play-by-play, verbatim, and since most of his days are spent with Leo, I get to hear about “The Boy” even though he’s not around.
Papa told me that Leo likes to ask him questions. Not about me, but about him. Leo had asked about his childhood in Budapest and what it was like growing up post-World War II in a country that defeated the Soviet Army. He’d told Leo about his family, being the youngest of four children, and about when his parents hid a family of Jews in a barn on their property. Papa was born in 1945, right at the end of the war, so his knowledge of these events is based purely on his father’s storytelling.
He’d told Leo about his stint in the Navy and how he traveled the world afterward. How it didn’t take long for him to fall in love with the American life, fall in love with an American girl, and then build the American dream.
Papa mentioned that Leo didn’t talk much, which isn’t a surprise to me. Papa did most of the talking, and Leo did most of the asking. A part of me wondered if it was like the times when Papa would go into town and people would simply amuse him by listening to his ramblings. With Leo, I doubted it. Leo was always a good listener, always interested in what you had to say, even if it held no real significance. He liked to get lost in stories, in journeys and adventures, but he didn’t much like living his own.
Papa even told him about how he’d worked on this farm prior to the previous owner selling it to him. The old house was a shed, and a shed wasn’t good enough for his American wife, and so he built an American House, with his own hands, worthy of the love of his life. She passed when my dad was fifteen. I think a part of Papa died with her, and my dad? According to Papa, he was never the same.
Of course, I’d heard all the stories before, but hearing how Papa retold them to Leo and seeing the smile on his lips and the gleam in his eyes when he mentioned how enthralled Leo was, made my heart soften, just a tad.
I’m reminded of the boy who held my hand when I was sad, who took me to his special place for no other reason than his want to share it… with me. There was so much good in Leo, that’s undeniable, and maybe…
Maybe that good just wasn’t meant for me.
During the day, I watch Leo from afar. At night, when the world is dark and the house is quiet, I secretly get to admire the work that he’s done. It’s like a treat for me, a reward. I wait until I know Papa is asleep and Leo is in the spare bedroom, and then I slip on my running shoes and head outside. Like Leo, I don’t have a route. I don’t need one; I have a treadmill in the barn. Last year, I ran five miles a night. This year, I’m pushing seven. Back at school, I ran on the track. I did it at night there, too, which caused some issues at first. It was against the rules, and the school called my dad. When he asked me why I was doing it, I shrugged and told him, “I just want to.” He didn’t ask questions, because he didn’t have time, and so he “donated” an undisclosed amount to the school with the agreement that they’d let me break curfew. There were no limits to the contract. It wasn’t an “only to use the track” type deal. I could’ve come and gone how I pleased and money—money made all my insubordinations disappear.
I almost make it seven miles before my body breaks down. Drenched in sweat, my lungs burn, muscles weak from the abuse I’d just handed them. I slow the treadmill to a walking pace, and it takes less than a minute for nausea to kick in. On shaky legs, I push through the next few steps of my routine, satisfied, and can’t help the slight smile as I walk toward the half-finished porch. It’s stripped to the foundation, and lying on top is what looks like three different railing samples. I bend down, run my finger along one of the posts, and then jolt back when a throat clears. It’s pitch-black, and