Boyd sipped his coffee. “It’s not the same. Right, Dad?”
“I don’t know, Boyd,” Charlie said.
“I can’t see inside either of you. I can only see inside
myself, and not too clearly at that.”
“What did you want?” Boyd said.
“Something sort of like you. I wanted to bury myself in music,
eat it, dream it, sleep it.
But when your mother left, I learned that sometimes the people you love are more important than
your dreams.” Charlie swallowed the last morsel of spaghetti. “Selling shoes pays
the rent.”
Steve gave Boyd an I-told-you-so look, then went to the fire and poured
them coffee. “You have any health insurance?"
Boyd shook his head without looking up.
“Sheila have any?” Steve said.
Boyd shook his head again.
“How’re you going to pay for the baby?”
“Goddamn you, Steve,” Boyd said.
“I told Dad,” Steve said. “Why didn’t
you?”
“I was going to. While we’re up here.” He gave Charlie
a quick look. “Baby’s not due
until fall. By then, I should have a regular set of gigs.”
“And if you don’t?” Steve said.
“I can do some modeling.”
“Thought you said they were looking for young kids.”
“I can always go back to waiting tables.”
Steve spat. “How the hell are you going to make enough to pay
the doctor and the
hospital and the lab fees and anesthetist—”
“That’s enough,” Charlie said. “We didn’t
come up here to fight. I told you to quit
picking on him.”
Boyd put their plates and napkins in the fire. He dumped the forks in
the garbage bag,
then looked at the sky through the trees. “Getting dark. Want to sit down by the creek with our coffee?”
TOM'S TALES