He was just remembering a squeaking shoe on a dark hill in 1994.

I felt a huge wave of embarrassment wash over me. I was ashamed of my own stupid pride.

“I am sorry, Arthur,” I said. My voice was barely louder than the hum of the crowd.

“I didn’t know.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” he said. He put his faded cap back on his head and pulled the brim down low over his eyes. “Now go on home. Those beefsteaks need to be eaten today.”

I walked back to my blue Buick.

My left shoe made that same wet, split-leather squeak on the asphalt of the parking lot.

Squeak. Slide. Squeak.

I didn’t mind the noise today.

I got in the car and sat there for a minute before turning the key.

I should have felt something huge. A great, dramatic sense of closure or peace.

But I didn’t.

Mostly, I just felt tired in my hips, and my knees were starting to throb from standing on the hot pavement.

I drove back to my small house on Maple Street.

I went into the kitchen, sliced one of the red tomatoes, and put it on a piece of white toast with a little mayonnaise and salt.

It was a very quiet lunch.

My daughter Sarah called me about two o’clock to ask if I wanted to go to the mall with her.

I told her no. I told her I was just going to sit on the porch for a bit.

“Did you get your tomatoes?” she asked.

“I did,” I said.

“Did he let you pay?”

“No,” I said, looking out at the green lawn. “He didn’t.”

“Well, that’s nice,” she said. “Saves you five dollars.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I suppose it does.”

I hung up the phone.

I went out to the porch and sat in the wicker chair.

The sun was very bright, and the cicadas were starting to buzz in the elm trees.

It was just another Saturday afternoon.

But the tomatoes tasted very good.