🔹 PART 6 – What the Neighbors Remember
On Monday morning, Frank did something he hadn’t done in years.
He put on his old sanitation jacket.
The thing barely fit anymore — sleeves a little snug around the arms, zipper stiff from disuse — but it still smelled faintly of motor oil, sweat, and the bitter winter mornings of a younger man’s life. He stood in front of the hallway mirror and stared at his reflection. The gray in his hair had outgrown the black. The wrinkles now looked like roadmaps carved deep. But the eyes? Still steady.
Waffles stood behind him, tail flicking gently, as if to say, You still got it.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Frank muttered. “We’re just going for a walk.”
But it wasn’t just a walk.
He and Waffles strolled up Avenue C, slow and steady. Frank had the leash looped loosely in his hand and a small plastic bag in his coat pocket — just in case. Waffles limped a bit, but his nose was in the air, tail wagging with every few steps.
They passed the laundromat first, then the old Polish bakery, now a closed storefront covered in “FOR LEASE” signs and graffiti tags.
Frank stopped in front of Pete’s Groceries — or what used to be. It was a pawn shop now, offering “fast loans,” “no credit checks,” and “cash for anything with value.”
He stared at the corner of the alley where it all began.
Where Waffles had first come into their lives.
He bent down slowly, looked into the dog’s eyes.
“You remember this spot?” he asked.
Waffles just blinked, then licked Frank’s wrist.
That was enough.
“Yeah,” Frank whispered. “Me too.”
On the way back, a voice called from across the street.
“Frankie!”
He turned to see Annie Caruso waving wildly from her porch. She wore her usual housecoat and had curlers in her hair despite it being nearly noon. A cigarette hung from the corner of her mouth.
“Waffles is back, huh?” she hollered.
Frank waved. “Good as new.”
She crossed the street faster than she should have, nearly tripping on a crack in the sidewalk. When she reached them, she bent down and hugged the dog tight.
“We were all so worried,” she said, voice catching.
Frank blinked. “Who’s we?”
“The block!” she said. “You think people don’t notice when their favorite mutt disappears? Ray from 3C asked about him twice. The kids on 29th put up a sign. You’re a local legend, Frank. Both of you.”
Frank stood there, surprised.
He’d spent so long thinking of himself as the old man with creaky knees and nobody calling, he forgot something important — people had been watching all along.
He cleared his throat. “Well… thanks.”
Annie lit her cigarette, took a puff. “You know, Lou always said people like you are the bones of the city. Folks who keep things going quietly while the world doesn’t pay attention.”
Frank looked down at his jacket.
“I’m just a guy with a truck and a dog.”
Annie smiled. “Yeah. And that’s exactly why we trust you.”
That afternoon, Frank and Waffles sat on the porch when the mail came. Bills, mostly. A Medicare pamphlet. A reminder for an insurance policy review he didn’t even remember signing up for.
But then — a card.
No return address. Just “Frank DeSantis” in bold pen.
He opened it slowly.
Inside, a short message:
“I used to see you every Tuesday on my block. You waved once when I dropped my groceries.
My dad never did that. You reminded me of what men used to be like.
Glad to hear your dog’s okay. – M.”
Frank read it twice.
Then folded it carefully and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket, right next to the dog collar.
When Evan called that evening, Frank told him about the card.
“You see?” Evan said. “People remember.”
Frank chuckled. “I didn’t even know they noticed.”
“They do. You’d be surprised what sticks. Sometimes it’s not the big stuff. It’s waving to someone with their hands full. It’s feeding a stray mutt. It’s showing up.”
Frank leaned back in his chair.
“I guess so.”
There was a pause on the line.
Then Evan said something he hadn’t said in a long, long time:
“Hey, Dad? Can I come by next weekend? I was thinking… maybe we can go through the garage. Some of Mom’s stuff is still in there.”
Frank’s heart skipped.
“Sure,” he said. “We’ll need gloves. Lotta dust.”
“I’ll bring some.”
“And beer.”
“Of course.”
That night, Frank stood at the kitchen sink, washing out Waffles’ food bowl.
He looked down at the cracked linoleum. The scratches from Waffles’ younger days were still there. But now, next to them, a few newer ones had joined. A fresh set of paw prints, etched in soft arcs where the dog had limped through the house these past few days.
He thought of the word legacy.
Not the kind you put in a will. Not the kind a financial advisor draws in a chart.
But the kind that lingers quietly. In worn-out jackets. In floor scratches. In the way your son still shows up when you need him, even if it took him a while to remember how.
Frank dried the bowl. Turned off the light. And went to bed with the dog curled up at his feet, right where he belonged.