That evening, the motorcycles returned. My father noticed them approaching from the same window where he had spent six frustrating weeks waiting for the roofing crew. Wearing his slippers, he walked outside and greeted Bertram. For several moments, he simply held his friend’s hand, struggling to find the right words. Then he explained something that surprised everyone.
He had served in the Marines, he said, and had never needed anybody to fight his battles. Bertram smiled and answered, “Nobody fought anyone. We just parked.” My father burst into laughter. It was the first genuine laughter I had heard from him since the roofing nightmare began.
