Leo patted the harmonicas at his chest, then he opened Jim’s present and pulled out a Delta circular saw, a short paint-splattered power cord hanging from it.

“It’s only a year old. Burrell bought it for his son, Billy. But I guess he never took to the carpentering like you.”

The saw felt heavy and balanced in Leo’s hand. It was just like the one Burrell used on the job near Spoon Hill. Leo said thank you, but didn’t look into Jim’s face.

“You can build me a porch,” Ryder said.

“Sure thing.” Leo placed the saw on the floor at his feet.

“Here,” Jim said. “This one’s brand new.”

Leo pulled the newspaper wrapping off the rectangular box. On top of white tissue paper lay a Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee album. “The men,” Ryder said. Next to it was a small beige envelope. The card showed a painting of a barn wall covered with hanging tools and some coiled rope. Inside was no store writing, just Jim’s:

Work’s the best cure, son. Happy Eighteen.

Yours,
Pop

Leo looked up at his father, and when Jim winked at him, Leo felt his throat thicken so he looked down and pulled the tissue out of the box to see a folded white dress shirt and a wide gray tie with red stripes. Beneath those was a dark navy blue suit jacket with gold buttons.

“It should fit, if your shirt does, anyway.”

“Aw, thank you.” Leo meant it this time; he didn’t own a jacket that fit anymore, that he could wear a shirt and tie with. He pulled it out of the box and tried it on.

“He looks good, Jimmy.”

“Sleeves are too short,” Jim said.

They were, but not much, an inch tops. If Leo shrugged his shoulders a little bit, the sleeve hems touched his hands right where they were supposed to. Leo buttoned the jacket and turned from side to side. “Pretty slick, huh?”

Ryder smiled and glanced at Jim, then he picked up the new album and slit the plastic covering open with his pocket knife. Leo held the tie to his neck and looked at his father. “I can wear this up to St. John’s next time.”

“I thought those gray pants of yours would go well.”

“Yeah, they will.”

“Mountain Blues” came out over the speakers. It was a Sonny Terry solo, and Leo thought how that blind man could play better than ten Ryder Stillwells and twenty Leo Suthers all at once. Jim picked up the boxes and papers and started out towards the kitchen. He stopped at the doorway. “You listen to those two, they’ve been touring together for years. I’ll cook those steaks.”

“Pop?”

“Yeah, son.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Thank the union. Who wants a beer?”