The sound of my father’s breathing was louder than the clanking of the steam radiators in the basement hallway. It had a dry, whistling rattle that did not belong in a man of fifty-four.
He pushed the wide dust mop over the red linoleum tiles, leaving a clean path through the gray winter grit. I sat on my heavy backpack near the boiler room door, watching the silver signet ring spin around my right pinky finger.
“I have swept these same tiles for twelve years, Nicole, and they still have plenty of shine left,” he said, his voice a low, raspy whisper.
He stopped and leaned his chest heavily against the top of the wooden broom handle. His face was the color of skim milk.
“Let me carry the bag, Dad,” I said, reaching for the nylon straps.
“No,” he said, coughing once into his blue handkerchief. “A senior preparing for college shouldn’t be hauling coal sacks.”
He swung the heavy bag onto his shoulder with a sharp grunt that made him wince.
We walked into his custodian closet, where the sharp smell of green floor wax and pine cleaner always hung thick in the air. He set my bag on a metal folding chair and reached into his vest pocket.
He pulled out his round silver pocket watch, but his hand came up empty of the heavy metal link that usually draped across his front.
“Well, look at that,” he murmured, turning the smooth metal casing over in his palm. “The chain is gone.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
He let out a dry chuckle, though his chest seemed to labor under the effort. “Must have slipped off while I was clearing the brush behind the athletic fields on Tuesday.”
He placed the chainless watch on his small wooden desk next to a jar of rusted screws.
At five o’clock, the bell in the main hallway rang three times, signaling the final lockup. Principal Bradley stood at the door of his office, adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles as we walked toward the exit.
“Nicole,” Mr. Bradley said, his voice slow and measured. “Step in for a moment, please.”
My father kept walking down the corridor, his boots dragging slightly on the concrete.
“Is Albert doing alright at home?” Mr. Bradley asked, looking down at a stack of maintenance schedules on his desk. “I can assign the gym floor to the night crew if he needs a lighter load.”
My fingers tightened around my signet ring, spinning it fast against my knuckle.
“He is perfectly strong,” I said. “He doesn’t need anyone taking his shifts.”
Mr. Bradley did not look up from his papers. “We want him here for a long time, Nicole.”
“He will be here,” I said, turning toward the door.
The walk home was six blocks through the damp Indiana dusk. My father walked half a step behind me, his breath coming in shallow, ragged puffs that rose like steam in the cold air.
The kitchen table at home was small enough that our knees touched when we sat down. A bowl of simple potato soup sat between us, the steam rising in thin gray curls under the yellow light of the ceiling fixture.
My father reached for the salt shaker, and his fingers trembled so hard the glass clicked against the ceramic pepper pot.
I watched the soup spill over the edge of his spoon, back into the bowl. I did not look at his face.
“The school board approved the weekend overtime shifts,” he said, his Midwestern drawl sounding thicker in the quiet room.
“You don’t need to work Saturdays,” I said. “We have enough.”
“We have what we need for today,” he said, setting the spoon down with a small clink. “But tomorrow costs more.”
“Then sell the watch,” I said, pointing to the empty pocket of his denim vest. “You don’t even have the chain anymore.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bare silver watch, placing it gently on the oilcloth table.
