BUTCH

Used to be, in the "olden days," as his father-in-law called them, the seasons were predictable. Winter ushered in a chill that stayed in the bones until spring thawed the snow and ice and brought in comfortable temperatures, gradually warming day by day into summer, when stifling heat had to be endured only for a little while because fall was around the corner.

But that was before global warming, or as Butch Browning liked to describe it, before seasons became irrelevant. Now there were tornadoes in winter and heat waves in May.

The kind of sweat induced by both heat and extreme boredom dropped from his brow onto the face of his watch as he checked it for the fourth time in ten minutes. He tugged at the collar of the only starched shirt he owned and listened to a young woman, introduced by the principal as Madison Buckley, read from the dictionary during her valedictorian speech. She was literally reading, word for word, all the definitions of success. For the price of valedictoriandom, he thought she might be able to come up with one on her own, but it didn't look like it.

Butch endured this graduation ceremony at the football stadium, during record-breaking heat on a virtually windless day, only for his nephew. Jenny's nephew, to be exact. But this morning when he was thinking of skipping the ceremony and mailing the gift, he'd heard her displeasure, in the form of guilt, like a wave rolling him right out of his bed. She placed a lot of importance on family. Always had. When he'd had a falling-out with his father years ago, it was Jenny who worked to get them set right.

It wasn't Butch's thing, though.

He was soaking straight through his only good shirt, listening to an eighteen-year-old lecture other eighteen-year-olds on how to succeed in life. Yeah, well, life has a way of making sure you don't see what's coming. That's what he'd say if he were up there.

He glanced down at Ava sitting next to him, her hip touching his. Now that Jenny was gone, she never sat by him without touching him. It was something he'd had to grow used to. He was a man who cherished personal space.

He'd been a lot of things before, with no clue as to what he should be now. Every day was like wandering into a dark forest with no map, no compass, and a flashlight that had pulled nearly all the juice from its nine-volt battery.

Ava tugged at the neck of her shirt. Sweater, to be exact. Christmas sweater, to be more exact. It had Rudolph on the front, with a bright-red blinky nose that had actually worked before Butch accidentally washed the battery pack he was supposed to know to remove. But it was the only thing he could find that was clean this morning, as they'd overslept and he'd rushed to get them both ready. He didn't turn on the news to hear the meteorologist's prediction of unseasonably warm weather. But who was he kidding? A sweater like this shouldn't be worn past February—any idiot would know that.

His daughter's cheeks were bright red and her bangs had curled into a wet mess on her forehead, but she sat upright, not complaining, focused on the young blonde woman at the podium who droned on and on about her vast achievements. Ava's little mouth moved as she unconsciously repeated the words to herself. It broke Butch's heart. Jenny used to do the same thing when she was intently focused on a conversation.

Finally, at the point that his deodorant had failed its commercial claim of lasting for twenty-four hours in the Sahara, they got around to calling out the names of the graduates.

"Nathan Anderson," said the monotone voice over the loudspeaker. Cheers erupted and Butch clapped loudly and whistled through his fingers.

Ava, a sweaty mess of heat and charm, grinned at him. "You gotta teach me how to do that whistle thing."

"Okay," he said. At least once a day she asked him to teach her something. He hadn't gotten around to any of it yet. He was still teaching himself how to do laundry. He'd almost gone broke buying them new packages of underwear every week for the first eight weeks after Jenny died. Now he could do the basics of throwing in a load with all the right colors, at the right temperature, with the right detergent—when he had the time.

He remembered a moment three weeks after they were married—Jenny holding up a white shirt that had ended up smeared with pink, thanks to the lipstick she'd left in a pocket. That laugh. He missed it. He craved it.

Suddenly hats shot high into the sky on the football field and the band started playing something triumphant. Time flies when you're lost in thoughts of days before you had to learn to do laundry.

Like an avalanche, the crowd rolled down the bleachers and onto the field to find their graduates.

"Hey, Ava, stay right by my—" Butch looked down, but she was gone. "Ava?"

He barely caught the top of her little head bobbing between people as she raced to find her aunt Beth. Maybe he should worry about her more, but sometimes it seemed his little girl knew how to take care of herself better than he did.

With the back of his sleeve, he wiped his forehead as he made his way down the bleachers. The field was so crowded he was actually locked in place by a couple of families, unable to move anywhere. All he could do was stand there and wait for someone to step aside. Jenny used to tell him he should be more assertive, but he could only assert himself in the place he felt most comfortable—a construction site. So he just stood.

But then his gaze wandered to the place he'd tried not to look the entire time he'd been at the football stadium. Across the field were the home team's bleachers. And eight rows up, in the center section, was the place he'd first seen Jenny. He'd transferred over from his old school and been backup quarterback his junior year. It wasn't until his senior year that he even had the courage to talk to her. She sat in the same place every home game, cheering and holding up some kind of poster she'd made. He'd heard she used to be a cheerleader but blew out a knee her sophomore year. She was voted "most liked" their senior year. Four days before they graduated, he asked her out.

"Madison! Beautifully done!" a woman said. Butch snapped his attention back to the field. A striking and severe-looking blonde woman embraced the valedictorian. She swept the girl's hair out of her face and smoothed her gown. "I thought you were going to get your bangs trimmed."

He imagined what Jenny would say to Ava if she were valedictorian. Probably nothing about her bangs.

A man, presumably the girl's father, shook her hand and nodded in agreement like they'd just signed a binding contract. The whole family seemed very pulled together, dressed correctly for the weather and weirdly sweat-proof.

Finally the sea of people moved and Butch was able to make it to Nathan, who he swore had grown a foot since he last saw him. He was now taller than his father, but still an inch short of Butch.

"Congratulations, Nathan," Butch said. He handed him the small box he'd been clutching for two and a half hours. The paper was red, the corners crisp, the tape invisible. The silver bow sparkled in the sunlight.

"Thanks, Uncle Butch." Nathan took the box.

"Yeah, good job," Ava said, tugging at Nathan's gown.

Nathan ruffled her hair and said, "Thanks, Ava." Was it...