Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Then what is it about?”
“The choice. Giving him the one you never gave him. You show up, you tell him the truth, you don’t reach for a single excuse, and then you let him decide what he wants to do with it. He might say no. You have to be able to hear and accept no. If you can’t hear no, you’re not doing it for him. You’re still doing it for yourself.”
The line stays quiet. When he comes back his voice has gone thin. “And if he says no?”
“Then you gave him something he didn’t have before. The truth, and the choice. That’s not nothing. Some nights that’s the whole job of being a father. Even late. Maybe especially late.”
“He’s a good man,” the caller says, almost to himself. “My son. Better than I had any business raising. I don’t know how he turned out like that with what he had to work with.”
“Kids are stubborn that way. They’ll turn out decent in spite of you if they have to.” I don’t know why I say it with such certainty. Maybe because I lived it.
“Maybe,” he says.
“Thank you,” he says. The word shakes coming out of him. “Thank you, Liam.”
The call stays with me, it hits home more than any of the others. I clear my throat. “I’ve got a father,” I say. “Present tense, technically. We haven’t spoken in longer than some of you have been alive. I’m not getting into it tonight. But I’ll give you the one thing I’ve picked up, standing about where some of you are standing right now. Some things look broken in a way that can’t be mended. They look that way for years. And ‘looks’ isn’t the same as ‘is.’ I don’t know yet whether mine can be fixed. I know I used to be sure it couldn’t. I’m less sure than I was an hour ago.”
Every line on the board goes red. I work them down until Bex draws a finger across her throat, then take the last one soft and bring the show in easy.
Bex runs the outro. The light goes dark.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
Jojo: Heard the show. Come home.
I keep hearing him. The older one. My son, and that small catch before he could get it out. I’ve taken a few hundred calls now, and most of them are gone by the time I’m in the truck. This one won’t go.
It’s an old man’s voice. Tired. Slow. He weighed every word before he let it go, especially the one about his son. I’ve heard somebody carry a word like that before. I just can’t put a face to it.
I sit in the dark until the hum is the only thing left in the room. Then I kill the board, lock the front of FMG Records behind me, and drive home to my wife with the window down, chasing a voice I can almost put a name to and can’t.
TEN
Ralph’s is empty for a Saturday afternoon. It’s the lull time—between lunch and dinner—which is exactly how I like it. I’m behind the bar, filling in, and I’m not the best bartender in the world. I can pour a beer like no other but ask me to make a margarita and that’s where I need help.
The barstool on the end is reserved for Mason, every day of the week. No one sits there. We’d come to Ralph’s as teens. He didn’t really care and would serve us if no one else was around. The stool is my way of sharing this bar with Mason.
Everything else has been updated. We installed new booths, new flooring, stripped and repainted the walls. We did keep the signs, posters, and other wall decals and put those back up.
Old Pete wraps his knuckles on the bar top, getting my attention. He sits in same spot—middle of the bar—right in line of the television. His wife passed in the spring, and he started spending more time here. I refill his coffee, which is always on the house.
“Glad to see you back in town,” he says.
I sigh heavily and rest my hands on the edge of the bar. “I’ll be here for a while.”
“Bad band break-up?”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “Hiatus. We need a break, physically.”
“Makes sense. I remember when you first started. My wife was a big fan.”
I beam and then remember she’s no longer with us and I think I should write a song or at least dedicate one to her, but then I’d have to perform, which isn’t the end of the world.
“I’ve been listening,” Pete says, pulling me from my internal brainstorming session. “You give out good advice. Do you have any for me?”
Pete catches me off guard. I open my mouth to say something but then realize I haven’t really done this in person, only behind a microphone. He asked for advice, but not about something in particular. The words finally come to me, “You’re a treasure to Beaumont,” I tell him. “You always have family here and a spot at my bar. Keep your wife’s spirit alive by talking about her, making everyone around you feel her presence.”