Free Shame by Greg Garrett Page B

doubts about.”
    â€œHeretic,” I announced to the diner at large. “Grab some stones.” The only woman who looked up just rolled her eyes and returned to her food.
    Our orders came then, and I launched into my chicken fried steak, not exactly tender, but certainly edible. “I do like that song,” I said. “‘New Hymn,’ I mean. I’m not sure I’ve ever really listened to the words before. I feel that way sometimes, like I’m calling out and He doesn’t hear me.”
    She nodded vigorously, her mouth completely full of lettuce, and I couldn’t help myself.
    â€œYou’re beautiful,” I said, and she stopped chewing, the edges of her mouth curled up slightly, sadly, and she brandished her fork at me in mock threat. “I mean it,” I said. “You are. With your mouth crammed with lettuce and a spot of dressing on your chin.”
    â€œOh.” She took care of the dressing with her napkin. “Did B. W. speak this morning?” she asked, and watched me closely as I responded.
    â€œNot to me,” I said.
    â€œAh,” she said. “He will. You’ll see.”
    But he didn’t talk to me at practice, and he didn’t talk to me at dinner that night. Which was just as well, because Lauren and I launched into a spirited but amicable discussion concerning the minimum age for dating. She maintained that perhaps cavewomen had waited until sixteen to car-date, but women at the end of the twentieth century were considerably more advanced. I contended that her mom was the only woman at the table, and that perhaps a dating novice could try her hand with an occasional parentally sponsored evening of entertainment.
    â€œDad,” she said, with a snort, “I would feel like a complete loser if you guys drove us around.” She paused. “No offense.”
    â€œNone taken,” I said, trying to live up to that sentiment.
    â€œDo you even know any guys with cars?” Michelle asked.
    â€œNot the point,” she said through a mouthful of greens.
    I looked at B. W. “Any opinions?”
    He shrugged and dropped the full piercing intensity of his gaze onto his steak, as though cutting a T-bone required his complete and undivided attention.
    That was the most we got out of him. In fact, right after dinner he got up from the table, went back to his room, and would you believe that loud music began to issue forth. Bryan Adams, I think, “Summer of ’69.”
    Michelle and I exchanged a pursed-mouthed glance. “I’m going to call Bill after dinner,” I said, finally, shifting us from one pleasant topic to another. “We’re going to try and put that game together.”
    â€œGood,” Lauren said brightly. “I like seeing B. W. play. Now I’ll get to see you both play at the same time.”
    â€œWho said you’re going to the game?” I said, and smirked at her when she looked up in dismay.
    â€œYou’re a stinker,” she said, but then she smiled, and I could tell that she still loved me. Michelle and I smiled at each other; Lauren pretended not to see that, but she kissed both of us on the tops of our heads as she gathered dishes.
    â€œYou’re the best,” she said.
    â€œGod help us,” I said.

Morning Time
    Although B. W. remained tight-lipped, after a few days—unlike Michael—he at least returned to speaking to me, and I got the sense that although he was upset about something, whatever that something was, it wasn’t primarily me. Maybe a truly good parent would have rooted out the cause of his melancholy like a terrier burrowing after a gopher. I have to admit I was willing to let things ride for a bit rather than take the risk of sending him back into silence.
    We conversed at the breakfast table again, at least when Michael didn’t join us, which anyway was about every morning. We talked about practice. B. W.