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parents were dead, but that’s about it. We know his mom had died of cancer, and for the longest time all he would say about his dad was that he went funny. Billy and I didn’t bug him for details. Lots of kids don’t like talking about the reason they’re in a foster home.
    â€œI lived with crazy for a year,” said Tom.
    â€œYour dad?” I asked.
    â€œYeah,” said Tom. “His doctor said it might be the beginning of Alzheimer’s. That’s the disease where your brain starts to get holes in it like Swiss cheese, you know?”
    I nodded.
    â€œBut I looked it up on the Internet. Dr. Anderson was wrong. My dad didn’t have Alzheimer’s. Alzheimer people forget every friggin’ thing. They forget where they live, forget what year it is, forget their names, everything. Dad didn’t forget important stuff.”
    â€œI think he just missed Mom so friggin’ much. He stopped going to the office and worked in his garden instead. He was building a shrine to Mom. You should’ve seen it—azaleas, maples, bonsai trees, a pond with koi and a waterfall, lanterns hanging outside a miniature ceremonial teahouse. An authentic Japanese garden.”
    â€œSounds nice.” I loved the words Tom used. No wonder he was in the gifted program.
    â€œI liked being in there and thinking about my mom. It felt like she was close by, you know?”
    I nodded.
    â€œBut then my dad stole a garden gnome from the neighbors. He put it in the centre of the garden, next to the waterfall. Now, have you ever seen a Japanese garden with a gnome in it? Have you?”
    I could tell I was supposed to be horrified. “You’ve got to be kidding!” I said.
    â€œRight! It’s like dropping a greasy hot dog into the centre of a perfect platter of sashimi. I asked him why he was doing it. Now get this: He said, ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my son. I have created a harmonious marriage between North American popular culture and ancient Japanese art.’ It made no sense.
    â€œBut that wasn’t the end: my dad brought home more garden gnomes and even pink flamingoes and a jockey. Then he brought home all kinds of gardening tools—shovels and forks, electric hedge clippers, hoses, an electric lawn mower and a full set of patio furniture until the backyard could hold no more. The beautiful Japanese garden disappeared under all the junk. Then the house began to fill up with odd things like realty and election signs, garbage cans, doormats, lawn chairs, children’s bicycles, wagons, go-carts— on and on.
    â€œEventually, someone in the neighborhood called the police. They came and looked at everything, and they scratched their heads. They didn’t know what to do. The neighbors said they didn’t care about their stuff. The poor man had just lost his wife. He was sick and didn’t know what he was doing.”
    â€œYou had nice neighbors,” I said.
    â€œSo the police contacted Social Services. A mental health guy started visiting once a week. You want to hear the supreme irony?”
    I wasn’t sure what irony was, supreme or otherwise, but I said, “Sure.”
    â€œDuring one of the talks with the health worker, my dad had a heart attack and died.”
    Okay, I got irony—the opposite happened to what was supposed to happen. A health worker is supposed to make you healthy. But you die. Funny. I thought Tom was trying to make it funny to cover how upset he was. You laugh to keep yourself from crying.
    I said, “Sounds to me like your dad just wanted to be with your mom. He must’ve really loved her a lot.”
    â€œYeah.”
    Billy said, “I’m sorry you had to deal with that, bud. It is pretty crazy. Nobody should have to deal with that.”
    Tom gave Billy a sideways smile of thanks.
    â€œThat’s why we have to stick together,” I said. “So we don’t have to deal with the