“I’m coming.”
We loaded the boxes together in the dark. He showed me how to pack them so the tomatoes didn’t bruise. Potatoes on the bottom. Then squash. Then beans. Then tomatoes on top, wrapped in newspaper.
We drove down Ridge Road with the headlights off until we got to the main road. “Don’t want to wake the neighbors,” Dad said.
We stopped at a little blue house on Elm Street first. An old man named Walt lived there. He was ninety-one and couldn’t drive anymore and couldn’t walk more than a few steps without his walker. Dad carried the box up the porch steps and set it by the door. He didn’t knock. He just tapped the window twice, and through the glass, I saw a light come on, and an old hand waved.
“Walt’s been getting boxes for nine years,” Dad said, climbing back into the truck. “Since his wife died. Marta brought him a pie the week of the funeral, and he cried so hard she just kept coming back.”
