THE THINGS LEFT BEHIND
Arthur missed the next three Thursdays.
Marisol did not have his number.
She realized that only after Claire said no.
She knew where Arthur boarded, which seat he preferred, that he took coffee black and cheated at no card games he could prove.
She did not know where he lived.
People could become familiar without becoming known.
On the fourth Thursday, he returned.
The brown coat looked too large on him.
Marisol opened the door.
"Evening."
"Evening."
He tapped his transit card.
Neither mentioned Claire.
At Calder Loop he stayed aboard.
Marisol waited.
"You don't have to keep doing this."
Arthur looked through the window.
"I know."
"Then why?"
"I like the route."
"No, you don't."
"It's adequate."
"Arthur."
He smiled faintly.
"Routine takes time to dismantle."
Marisol turned off the engine.
Technically she wasn't supposed to unless scheduled for a layover, but they had six minutes.
Arthur looked toward her.
"You angry with her?" Marisol asked.
"No."
"At yourself?"
"Often."
"Useful?"
"Rarely."
That sounded more like the Arthur she knew.
Marisol folded her arms.
"What happens now?"
"I leave her alone."
"And?"
"And I live."
She waited.
Arthur sighed.
"What answer are you looking for?"
"I don't know."
"Then we're evenly matched."
The bus heater clicked.
Arthur looked toward the empty lot again.
"When Claire was nine, she wanted a bicycle."
Marisol said nothing.
"I told her we'd get one in spring. Spring came. Money was bad. I said summer."
He traced a line in the fogged window with one finger.
"In summer I bought a used Pontiac."
Marisol looked at him.
"I told myself I needed it for work."
"Did you?"
"Probably."
"Did Claire get a bike?"
"Her mother bought one from a neighbor."
Arthur's finger stopped.
"I remember being offended that Diane hadn't waited for me."
Marisol almost smiled at the absurdity.
Arthur did.
"I've had a lot of time to notice what an idiot I was."
"Only an idiot?"
"Worse words seem theatrical at my age."
Marisol watched the old sidewalk outside.
"Claire said something about you."
Arthur looked over.
Marisol had not intended to tell him.
"What?"
"She said you always preferred almost doing things."
Arthur closed his eyes.
"Yes."
"She was right?"
"Yes."
Marisol expected more.
Arthur gave her none.
The next week he did something different.
At Calder Loop, he got off.
He crossed the street.
But instead of stopping at the fence, he continued down the sidewalk.
Marisol had to leave.
When she returned, he was waiting at the stop holding a black plastic trash bag.
"What is that?"
"Garbage."
"I can see that."
"There was a lot of it."
He boarded.
The following Thursday he brought work gloves.
"You cleaning the lot?"
"Sidewalk."
"Why?"
Arthur sat.
"Because it's there."
Over the next month, he cleared bottles, fast-food wrappers and windblown plastic from the block.
The land belonged to the city.
Arthur did not trespass behind the fence.
He cleaned the public sidewalk and the neglected strip between curb and barrier.
No one applauded.
No newspaper wrote about it.
Most people did not notice.
Marisol did.
He also stopped staring at the exact place where Claire's house had stood.
That mattered more.
In March, Claire called again.
Marisol was parked at the depot when her phone rang.
"I need to ask you something."
"Okay."
"Is he still riding your bus?"
"Every Thursday."
"Why?"
Marisol considered lying.
"At first, probably because of you."
"And now?"
"He cleans trash off your old block."
Silence.
"Why?"
"He hasn't told me."
"Is he trying to impress me?"
"He doesn't know we're talking."
Claire breathed out.
"Don't tell him I called."
"I won't."
Claire remained on the line.
"Does he talk about me?"
"Sometimes."
"What does he say?"
Marisol looked across the depot at mechanics smoking beside the garage entrance.
"Mostly things he did wrong."
Claire was quiet.
"That sounds convenient now."
"Maybe."
Marisol thought of Arthur collecting broken bottles in thirty-degree weather.
"He doesn't make himself the victim."
"That's a low standard."
"Very."
Claire seemed almost surprised by the agreement.
Marisol continued.
"I'm not trying to sell him to you."
"Good."
"You said no. He accepted it."
Another silence.
"He didn't send anything else?"
"No."
"Call?"
"No."
"Ask you to call?"
"No."
Claire breathed slowly.
"I spent most of my life assuming if he came back, he'd make it my problem."
Marisol understood.
Forgive me.
Listen to my explanation.
Meet me halfway.
Give me closure.
Let me be your father again.
All requests disguised as apologies.
"He hasn't," Marisol said.
Claire did not respond.
"Why did you call?" Marisol asked.
"I don't know."
Marisol smiled despite herself.
"That phrase is contagious."
Claire almost laughed.
Before disconnecting she asked one more question.
"What time does the bus reach Calder?"
"Nine twenty-six."
"Every Thursday?"
"Unless traffic is terrible."
"Okay."
She ended the call.
Marisol stared at the phone.
For once she decided not to interpret a piece as though it were the whole life.