Free The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story by Brennan Manning, Greg Garrett Page B

are?”
    Tom simply nodded once, looked up, looked back down. “Of course I have,” he said.
    Of course.
    For an instant, Jack felt Tracy’s and Alison’s hands in his as he prepared to preach. It was the best part of his week, he realized now. Not because he was getting ready to speak, but because he was connected to them, drawing strength from them, claiming them.
    And they were claiming him.
    He felt tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He covered his face with his hand and turned away so his father couldn’t see. Jack had been taught at an early age not to cry—or at least not to let anyone see you doing it. In his family, men didn’t cry. Or in Mayfield, for that matter.
    “Hey,” Tom said. He heard his father slowly getting off his stool and stepping from behind the counter. “Jackie,” he said, crossing over to him. “What’s wrong?”
    Jack had not been called “Jackie” in thirty years. It’s what his mom used to call him when he’d fallen out of a tree or been stung by bees or gotten the bad end of a tussle with Jamie Taylor.
    “Tracy hasn’t talked to me since—since I left,” Jack said, his back still to his father, tears continuing to threaten. “I can’t believe she could hate me so much. And she’s going to teach Alison to hate me.”
    “Hey,” his father said, putting a hand on his shoulder and turning him slightly. “We don’t know what she’s thinking.”
    “We know they’re gone,” Jack said. “We know she won’t call me back.” He dropped his hand, felt a tear run freely down his cheek. “And the worst thing is, I deserve it.” His shoulders slumped. “For what I did. I deserve it all.”
    “Nobody deserves to be abandoned by the ones they love,” his father said quietly, and Jack felt a sting of conscience, knew Tom could have brought forward long years of reproach, and yet didn’t.
    “It’s the worst,” Jack admitted. “It’s tearing me apart.”
    “We’ll find them,” Tom said. “Don’t you worry about that. It’s a small world, what with the Internets and all.” He patted Jack’s shoulder gently. “We’ll find them.”
    Jack laughed, wiped his face. “Sure we will,” he said. “The Internets are our friend.”
    He patted his father’s hand, which was still resting on Jack’s shoulder. He never expected that hand to feel comforting. He wondered what else he’d been wrong about.
    He stepped back. “It’s okay. It is what it is.”
    They exchanged a long look and both nodded. Then Jack picked his clipboard off the counter, shrugged on his coat, and went out to count the rest of the lumber.

6.
    H e was taking a break and sipping on a can of Dr Pepper. Heat radiated off the sun-baked wall he was seated against and his eyes were closed, when he heard footsteps again.
    “Didn’t get a good enough look the first time?” he called out, trying and failing to hide the hostility in his voice.
    “I don’t believe I got a first look,” a calm female voice said.
    He opened his eyes, stumbled awkwardly to his feet, spilling some Dr Pepper on his shoe in the process. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were—someone.”
    “I like to think I am someone,” she said, not unkindly. “Are you feeling like a zoo animal, Jack Chisholm?”
    He laughed despite himself. “Yeah, you could say that. I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
    She laughed. “Jack,” she said. “It’s Kathy. Kathy Branstetter.”
    “No,” he said. He looked more closely at her. Thirtyish, tiny, attractive, wavy blonde hair, a legal pad in one hand. She was dressed too well for Mayfield, in a skirt, knee-high boots, and a nice jacket. He remembered a dumpy gray little girl. Not this. “No. You’re not.”
    “I’m pretty sure I am,” she said mildly.
    “Sorry. It’s just—I heard you were working for the
Washington Post.
I’ve read your political stuff. And I haven’t seen you—”
    “I was away for a long time,” she said. “Then my dad got sick. He