“What?”
“Mr. Vance can’t get his mower started.”
I glanced outside.
Mr. Vance was halfway down his driveway, leaning heavily over an old push mower. He pulled the starter cord once.
Nothing.
He pulled again.
Then he stopped and pressed one hand against his lower back.
“He’ll probably figure it out,” I said.
Noah kept watching.
Mr. Vance bent down, apparently trying to inspect something near the engine, and nearly lost his balance.
Noah immediately put down his cereal spoon.
“I’m doing his yard.”
“You could ask first.”
“He’ll say no.”
“Probably.”
Noah disappeared into the garage.
Five minutes later, he was pushing our mower across the street.
I stood at the kitchen window fully expecting Mr. Vance to wave him away.
Instead, the old man stared at Noah for several seconds.
Noah said something I couldn’t hear.
Mr. Vance looked toward his lawn.
Then he pointed toward the side yard.
Noah nodded.
That was it.
For the next four years, from spring until late fall, Noah mowed Mr. Vance’s lawn every Saturday morning.
He never accepted money.
The first time I suggested he should, he looked almost offended.
“You should at least let him give you twenty dollars,” I told him.
“Why?”
“Because you’re doing work.”
“So?”
“So people usually get paid for work.”
Noah shrugged.
“He can’t do it.”
Apparently, in Noah’s mind, that settled everything.
Mr. Vance was not much of a conversationalist, and Noah wasn’t exactly one either.
Sometimes I would watch from our front window as Noah finished mowing, wiped the sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his T-shirt, and walked toward the porch.
Mr. Vance would say something.
Noah would answer.
Then they’d stand there in silence for several minutes.
