On a sunny, late August afternoon, I saw my best friend, Jim, for the last time. To visit him, I had to cross a smooth, two-lane state highway that connected our town to lonely rural stretches. Another block away were the four modest rooms that formed Jim’s house. Behind it sat the embankment of a rarely active railroad. A gravel driveway led to a side door from which Jim emerged with an unleashed bluetick coonhound.
I said “Hi,” then awkwardly stared at him while the dog sniffed around my feet. Jim wondered if I wanted to play catch, or maybe go to the neighborhood dairy for ice cream.
“I can’t do that today.”
Jim’s eyes narrowed, as they usually did when he was puzzled.
“We’re moving to Chicago the day after tomorrow. My mom, dad, and me.”
“What about Eddie and Frank?”
“My brothers aren’t coming with us.”
His eyes remained puzzled.
“They’ll stay in college, I guess.” I picked up a smooth stone and threw it across the street, into a stand of wild bushes.
“What happened? Why are you moving?”
“My dad got a new job,” I said flatly; “It starts next week. We’re leaving.”
“I guess this is good-bye.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” I didn’t know what else to say, or what to do. So I slowly walked home, not looking back while the dog’s barking gradually diminished.
