“Boyd,” Charlie said, “I’m not going to give you the money this time.”
The smile on Boyd’s face didn’t change.
“It’s time for you—” Charlie began.
Boyd turned toward the creek. The smile disappeared. He sat back, took a swallow of
beer, and stretched. His eyes swept the sky. “Gets so quiet after dark. So quiet.”
Charlie sighed and stood. “I’m going to see about dinner.”
“Dad,” Boyd said. Charlie stopped. Boyd put his elbows on the table and folded his
hands. “What you say we break camp? We could be back before ten.”
Charlie watched him. “You sure?”
Boyd nodded.
They drove without speaking. Boyd strummed and plucked. As they approached the city
limits, he turned to Charlie. “You’re a great dad. Always have been. I hope my problems won’t
change anything.” He turned his gaze to the darkened horizon. “In my dream, when I was up on
the stage and the crowd was going wild, I always looked through the faces for yours. I knew
you’d be smiling and nodding.” Boyd’s voice wobbled. “I always wanted, more than anything in
the world, for you to be proud of me.”
Charlie wanted to cry. He looked at the stars hanging over the city ahead of them. He
watched the orange arc lights whipping past with a slow rhythm all their own. He smelled the
highway and the cars and Boyd and his own sweat. He listened to the tires singing on the
pavement, a wavering A-flat.
TOM'S TALES