Charlie awoke to the sound of the creek scolding in B-flat and birds chattering
polytonally in the trees. When he opened his eyes he saw the roof of the tent dim above him. He
turned his head. Boyd was asleep on his stomach, his arms embracing his pillow, his hair falling
over his face. Steve’s sleeping bag was empty. Charlie struggled to his knees and found his
clothes. He crawled from the tent on all fours, stood upright, stretched his unwilling legs, and sat
on the log to put on his jeans. The sharp blue of the sky told him the sun was above the horizon.
He knelt by the creek, splashed water on his face, listened to the rapids, then shuffled to the fire
pit. A small fire was burning. A pot of coffee sat on the rocks.
Steve came through the trees with a load of logs in burlap on one shoulder. He wore dark
slacks and a button down, long-sleeve plaid sport shirt with creases still in the arms and chest. He
let the logs fall into the woodpile.
“You’re all dressed up,” Charlie said.
“Thought I’d get things started for you guys before I shove off.”
Charlie’s stomach clenched. “You leaving?”
Steve nodded. “The kid’s driving me crazy.”
“Stop calling him the kid. He’s almost thirty.”
“Someone’s got to level with him.”
Charlie swallowed hard. “Barely had any time with you. You flying out Monday? Why
the hell can’t you two get along?”
“He makes me ashamed.”
“Stop it.” Charlie turned to the fire pit.
“Come see us after the baby’s born,” Steve said.
Charlie shook his head.
Steve put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “I’ll pay for it.”
Charlie tried to speak, but the lump in his throat stopped him. He closed his eyes.
“Love you, Dad.”
Steve’s hand left Charlie’s shoulder. Footsteps, then a car door. An engine started.
TOM'S TALES