“Dad never let me have one thing,” Rick said. “You know that. And I never asked him. I never asked you either.”
He shook his head slowly.
“And then I’m sitting in the truck with that letter. And I thought, I’m going to be dead someday. And I never had one single thing that was just mine.”
“So you bought a boat,” I said.
“So I bought a boat.”
He was quiet for a long time.
“With your kitchen,” he said. “I know it. I knew it when I signed the check. And I did it anyway. And then I told you the kitchen works fine, because I couldn’t think of one other thing to say.”
“It doesn’t work fine, Rick.”
“I know it doesn’t.”
He sat there a long while.
Then he said, “I’m sorry, Karen.”
It came out rough. Like it had been stuck crossways in him for a long time.
“I know you are,” I said.
I didn’t tell him it was all right.
It wasn’t all right.
But I reached over and put my hand on top of his, on the bench seat, on my mother’s tablecloth. And we sat there together until the candle went out.
The next night, I made supper in the boat again.
On the fifth night, our son came by with his wife.
Tyler is twenty-four. He works at the grain elevator in town. He and Amber rent a little house over by the elementary school.
He’d heard about it from Amber. Who’d heard about it from her mother. Who’d heard about it at Bible study.
Tyler stood at the end of the driveway with his hands jammed in his jacket pockets. Amber stood next to him holding a pan of brownies covered in foil.
“Mom,” Tyler said. “What are you doing?”
“Eating supper with your father,” I said. “You hungry? It’s tater tot casserole.”
Tyler looked at his dad.
Rick looked back at him from the driver’s seat. Fork in his hand. Co-op cap pushed back on his head.
“Don’t look at me,” Rick said. “I’m just a guest here.”
Amber laughed out loud. Then she slapped her hand over her mouth.
Then she climbed right up the step stool and sat down on the front deck. Because Amber grew up on a hog farm outside Maxwell, and not much in this world scares her.
Tyler stayed down on the driveway a while longer.
Then he pulled one of the kitchen chairs up next to the boat and ate off the maple table. Like a grown man who’d been stuck at the kids’ table at Thanksgiving.
When Rick went inside to get more iced tea, Tyler leaned over the side of the boat.
“Mom. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, honey.”
“Do you want me to talk to him?”
I looked at my son.
He has his father’s shoulders. His father’s way of standing with all his weight on one foot. And in twenty-four years, he has never once raised his voice at his father.
“No,” I said. “Your dad’s talking to himself just fine. Let him.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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