Five Good Ones
It's later than you think, but there's still time
The cicadas started up just after supper, their dry song curling through the air like smoke. Henry sat on the front porch steps with his mitt on his left hand, staring down the long stretch of Maple Street. The bloated evening sun hung low in the sky and painted the asphalt a golden orange.
Mom poked her head out the screen door behind him. "He’ll be late again, baby. Go wash up."
"But he promised," Henry muttered.
Mom sighed and came out, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "I know, sweetheart. But he's tired when he gets home. You know how hard the factory's been since that new boss came in. You can play tomorrow."
"You always say tomorrow. When will tomorrow be today?"
His voice was flat and sad. It wasn’t really a question or a complaint. More of a resigned sigh.
Mom ruffled his hair, kissed the top of his head, and went back inside.
By the time headlights finally turned onto their street, the fireflies hovered over the lawn, blinking like Morse code. Henry sprang to his feet as the old Chevy truck growled into the driveway, gravel crunching under its tires.
Dad stepped down, silhouetted by the yellow light of the truck cab. His shoulders slumped with the weight of the day, and his empty lunch pail swung from one hand. He looked older every time Henry saw him.
Mom stepped out onto the porch behind Henry, and he could smell the plate of meatloaf and green beans she held in her hands. “I heated your supper up,” she said over Henry’s head.
Dad didn’t answer right away. He blinked at Henry, glancing at the boy’s baseball glove. The man set his lunchbox down on the hood of the truck and stretched his neck as he looked up at the stars sparkling in the June night sky.
Then he opened the truck door again and leaned inside. A second later, he popped up and faced Henry with a smile. "Hey, champ," Dad said, holding up his mitt. "What do you say? Five good throws?"
Henry blinked, then nodded fast. “Yeah! Five!”
They moved quietly in the yard, and the sounds of the world fell away under the soft thump of ball hitting leather. Fireflies danced around them like sparks generated from the impact.
"Two!" Henry called, catching a high one.
Dad grinned. “That was three.”
"Was not!"
They played until five turned to ten, then fifteen, until the throws slowed and the catches came softer, until Henry’s eyes drooped and his glove hung loose at his side.
Dad scooped him up, Henry’s head resting on his father’s shoulder.
"Will you be late again tomorrow?" Henry murmured.
"Probably."
They stepped onto the porch, and Dad checked his watch. It was already past midnight.
"But tonight," Dad said in a low voice, "we turned tomorrow into today.”
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