As I stood there, I heard the thunk of my grandfather’s cane on the wooden floor of the gallery. Edgar came up beside me, his right foot dragging as it had since his ministroke seven years ago. He wore a Cubs cap backward on his head, along with a V-neck Hanes white T-shirt that exposed his curly gray chest hair, baggy tan shorts, and black, well-shined dress shoes with black socks. Yes, Edgar had his own sense of style, and he didn’t care what anyone else thought about him. He didn’t acknowledge me. Instead, he exhaled with a sigh of satisfaction as he stared at Hopper’s painting.

At ninety-four, the fact that my grandfather was still alive was sort of a miracle. He’d been a heavy smoker his whole life, existing mostly on a diet of Chicago dogs and Budweiser. We used to be the same height, but he’d shrunk over the years and was now three inches shorter than me. He didn’t leave the apartment much anymore, and Karly and I had hired a nurse to stay with him several days a week, which he hated. But every Thursday, regardless of rain, wind, cold, or snow, Edgar still hopped a bus and headed downtown to meet me at the Art Institute. I was never sure if he was really here to see me or Nighthawks.

“Did I ever tell you that I’m the reason this painting is here in the museum?” Edgar asked.

This was our routine. He asked me the same question every week and told me the same story. I didn’t know if he’d forgotten that I’d heard it a thousand times, or if he didn’t care.

“I was six years old,” Edgar continued, listening to himself talk as he adjusted the volume on his hearing aid. His voice carried to the entire gallery. “My parents had taken me to Chicago to see the Christmas windows at Marshall Field’s. We were at the corner of State and Randolph, and I saw this man with a huge white beard near the store. I was absolutely sure it was Santa Claus. I took off running, and I collided with a man who was just about to cross the street. Knocked him completely off his feet! Well, don’t you know, at that moment, a grain truck went screaming through the intersection. If I hadn’t knocked that man down, he would have been killed for sure. And do you know who that man was?”

I smiled. “Who was he, Edgar?”

“His name was Daniel Catton Rich. He was the director of the Art Institute. That was Christmas of 1941, and the very next year, Rich acquired Nighthawks directly from Edward Hopper. It’s been here ever since. If it weren’t for me, who knows where that painting would be?”

Edgar shuffled on his feet, looking pleased with himself, as he always did.