“Look,” Charlie said, “the whole idea of this trip is to let Boyd unwind for a couple of days while Sheila and Timmy are in Philadelphia.”
“Thought it was so Boyd and me could spend some time together while I’m east. That’s why I rented the car and followed you up here.”
“That, too.”
Steve took a beer from the cooler and slumped at the camp table. “Dad, when are you going to stop running interference for him?”
Charlie reached for a beer and sat next to him. “He’s my son.”
“So am I.”
“You did fine. You’re hardheaded. A loner. Like your mother.”
Steve laughed. “So the one who did fine gets yelled at.”
“You’ve got no complaints coming.”
“It’s just that he—” Steve took a slug of beer. “I feel ashamed for him.”
Charlie stood so fast that his beer fell over. “Ashamed?”
Rustling and swishing. Boyd came through the trees dragging a large, dead limb. “This’ll be plenty when we break it up.”
While Steve got the fire going, Charlie opened the spaghetti can and dumped it into a scorched pot. Boyd improvised chords and riffs on Charlie’s guitar. Soon he was singing softly over a repeated pattern of three chords.
“What’s that?” Charlie said.
“New tune. Trying to get the bridge to work.”
Charlie started coffee. Same three chords—D, E, A—in the bridge. Same key. Only the melody was different. Then the refrain came back. The song ended with a coda that sounded like an afterthought.
“What’s it called?” Charlie said.
TOM'S TALES