Free Other Plans by Constance C. Greene Page B

John.” She snapped off the light. He thought it was because she didn’t want him to see she was crying. He saw the tears and wondered what was going on for her.
    Taking the stairs two at a time, he shouted out a country-western song about a man whose wife had left him with all the kids while she went off in a pickup truck with a jailbird to find the big time in Natchez. John always knew words to songs like that, and sang them at the top of his lungs. They sounded better that way, he said.
    John could hear his father still on the phone, talking to Uncle Ed. For lack of anything better to do, he listened in on the extension.
    â€œThe pain was agonizing,” Uncle Ed was saying. “No one who hasn’t had gallstones, Henry, can possibly know what real pain is. Like hot pokers. Labor pains. When I described the pain to Marge, she said, ‘That sounds exactly like the pains I had with Susan.’ And that’s when I decided to call the doc. You better get yourself checked out, Henry. You’re no spring chicken, you know.”
    Very quietly John hung up. So his father thought he might have gallbladder problems. No wonder he’d been testy lately. He thought of calling Keith, but decided that could wait. To celebrate his good fortune, he did his history assignment. Then, with all those dates swirling around in his head, he lay on his bed thinking of ways to screw his mother out of a couple more bucks. If he was going to go into the gigolo business, feed Grace Lerner’s nerdy niece full of expensive munchies, she’d have to pay for first-class accommodations. His time was valuable.
    Long after John had gone up to his room, long after Henry, his face gray with fatigue, had said he thought he’d turn in, she sat there quietly, thinking about how things had turned out, thinking about John, about Henry. About the way they were always at each other’s throats. John’s face, when he said, “Dad’s getting soft as a grape,” had been suffused with joy. It made her very unhappy that they didn’t get on, which Henry knew. But still he pursued his tack, so stiff, so unyielding when it came to John. They had spoken of it many times, always at her instigation. Invariably, Henry turned away, unwilling to say more than that John must be made to understand he couldn’t goof off for the rest of his life. “He is very irresponsible, Ceil,” Henry had said through stiff lips.
    â€œYou’re too hard on him. You never give him a break. If you must be so severe, then treat Leslie with the same severity. It’s not fair the way you single him out for constant criticism.”
    â€œLeslie doesn’t need it the way he does; she’s disciplined, she’s tough on herself, she’s motivated, Ceil.”
    Through clenched teeth she said, “I hate that word. Find another one.”
    â€œWhether or not you like the word, it’s important to be motivated. I worry about him. He’s so … so feckless, I guess is the best word. He’s always clowning. He’s an escapist, Ceil.”
    â€œAnd you? I suppose you were all business, all buttoned-down, chairman-of-the-board dedication when you were his age, is that it?”
    â€œNo, of course not. But my father was stern with me, and I think it’s the way to be with John. It’s the only way I know. I want him to grow up to be a responsible person, a good man. And right now, he’s as soft as a grape, to coin one of his phrases.”
    â€œHe’s got good stuff in him,” she said. “In a few years, he’ll be a man and you’ll see. I just hope it won’t be too late for you and him to be friends. At the rate you’re going, you’re going to destroy any chance you have. Your relationship will be too far gone.”
    â€œAh, Ceil.” He tried to embrace her and she would have none of it.
    John, at six, had come to her and asked, “Would you give up