asshole.”
“Denise!” her mother scolded. The table fell quiet. I filled the awkwardness by stuffing bites of spare rib into my mouth. Denise, crying, stood and ran out of the room.
“We sure hated to see your brother go, Mitch,” Mr. Munroe said as he watched his wife chase after Denise. “We liked having him around here.”
After dinner, Jennifer and I went for a walk.
“I’m glad you came,” she said.
“I’m glad you invited me. I like your family.”
“Yeah.”
We walked on.
“Mitch, are you OK here?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I don’t know…never mind.”
I stopped.
“Hey, my dad’s a good guy,” I said. “I’m sorry about Jerry too, but…well, it’s hard to explain.”
“It’s OK.”
As we rounded a corner and headed back toward her house, Jennifer slipped her hand into mine.
I intended to walk to the trailer, but Mr. Munroe shot down that plan.
“It’s getting dark,” he said. “I’ll drive you over.”
Jennifer rode with us. Nobody talked very much, but when we rolled up behind Dad’s pickup, Mr. Munroe told me, “You come see us any time, Mitch. I mean it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Bye, Mitch,” Jennifer called out as I walked to the trailer. I turned and waved.
The trailer lights burned. I figured Dad was watching some TV before hitting the hay. Nearly eight hundred miles of driving to the ranch in Split Rail awaited us in the morning.
Inside, I didn’t find Dad. Only a note.
Mitch: Be back soon. Go to bed. Dad.
I locked the door and turned off the lights, then fired up the TV.
An hour went by, then an hour and a half. The test pattern came on the TV.
After midnight, I heard Dad walking up the gravel driveway. I flipped off the TV and dove into the covers.
Dad fiddled with his keys, trying to unlock the door. Once he was in, he came over to where I lay, and the stench of whiskey floated off him.
“Are you asleep?”
I kept my eyes shut tight.
“Mitch?”
I didn’t move.
He stayed a few moments longer. It was all I could do to keep my eyes closed. Finally, he said, “Good night.”
When I heard the bedroom door close, I opened my eyes.
BILLINGS | SEPTEMBER 20, 2007
D AD HAD COFFEE WAITING for me when I came into the kitchen.
“What time is it?”
He chuckled. “Quarter after eleven.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He handed me a cup and, when I hesitated, rolled his eyes and fetched me cream and sugar.
“A little hard work wears you out, huh?” he said.
No doubt. It had taken some coaxing to get my legs moving, and a dull burn radiated across my shoulders and in my biceps. Could I really be this far out of shape?
“I work hard, but yeah, physical labor is a bitch.”
“You don’t work hard.”
I looked at Dad, and he grinned. He was picking a fight just to entertain himself, and damned if I didn’t give it to him, proving that my brain was as soft as my muscles.
“You ever sell five-million bucks’ worth of something, Pop? I’ve done it in a weekend.” A long time ago, I silently conceded.
“That’s not so hard.”
I took dead aim.
“It’s easy to sell bullshit,” I said. “You’ve done it your whole life. But bullshit isn’t worth anything.”
Dad skittered into the living room, laughing at me.
After I showered and dressed, I came back into the kitchen and shook some cereal into a bowl.
“Don’t eat,” Dad said.
“I’m starving here.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, jabbing his forefinger into my gut. “We’re having lunch at the Elks.”
“Why?”
“It’s Thursday. I always eat there Thursdays. Don’t you want to get out of here for a while?”
Dad insisted that we drive over in my rental. On the five-block drive to the Elks Club, he fiddled constantly with the car’s gadgets.
“Satellite radio? What’s that?”
“It’s beamed off of satellites, hundreds of stations. Anything you want. And you don’t have to worry about losing a signal.”
Dad whistled
“Denise!” her mother scolded. The table fell quiet. I filled the awkwardness by stuffing bites of spare rib into my mouth. Denise, crying, stood and ran out of the room.
“We sure hated to see your brother go, Mitch,” Mr. Munroe said as he watched his wife chase after Denise. “We liked having him around here.”
After dinner, Jennifer and I went for a walk.
“I’m glad you came,” she said.
“I’m glad you invited me. I like your family.”
“Yeah.”
We walked on.
“Mitch, are you OK here?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I don’t know…never mind.”
I stopped.
“Hey, my dad’s a good guy,” I said. “I’m sorry about Jerry too, but…well, it’s hard to explain.”
“It’s OK.”
As we rounded a corner and headed back toward her house, Jennifer slipped her hand into mine.
I intended to walk to the trailer, but Mr. Munroe shot down that plan.
“It’s getting dark,” he said. “I’ll drive you over.”
Jennifer rode with us. Nobody talked very much, but when we rolled up behind Dad’s pickup, Mr. Munroe told me, “You come see us any time, Mitch. I mean it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Bye, Mitch,” Jennifer called out as I walked to the trailer. I turned and waved.
The trailer lights burned. I figured Dad was watching some TV before hitting the hay. Nearly eight hundred miles of driving to the ranch in Split Rail awaited us in the morning.
Inside, I didn’t find Dad. Only a note.
Mitch: Be back soon. Go to bed. Dad.
I locked the door and turned off the lights, then fired up the TV.
An hour went by, then an hour and a half. The test pattern came on the TV.
After midnight, I heard Dad walking up the gravel driveway. I flipped off the TV and dove into the covers.
Dad fiddled with his keys, trying to unlock the door. Once he was in, he came over to where I lay, and the stench of whiskey floated off him.
“Are you asleep?”
I kept my eyes shut tight.
“Mitch?”
I didn’t move.
He stayed a few moments longer. It was all I could do to keep my eyes closed. Finally, he said, “Good night.”
When I heard the bedroom door close, I opened my eyes.
BILLINGS | SEPTEMBER 20, 2007
D AD HAD COFFEE WAITING for me when I came into the kitchen.
“What time is it?”
He chuckled. “Quarter after eleven.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He handed me a cup and, when I hesitated, rolled his eyes and fetched me cream and sugar.
“A little hard work wears you out, huh?” he said.
No doubt. It had taken some coaxing to get my legs moving, and a dull burn radiated across my shoulders and in my biceps. Could I really be this far out of shape?
“I work hard, but yeah, physical labor is a bitch.”
“You don’t work hard.”
I looked at Dad, and he grinned. He was picking a fight just to entertain himself, and damned if I didn’t give it to him, proving that my brain was as soft as my muscles.
“You ever sell five-million bucks’ worth of something, Pop? I’ve done it in a weekend.” A long time ago, I silently conceded.
“That’s not so hard.”
I took dead aim.
“It’s easy to sell bullshit,” I said. “You’ve done it your whole life. But bullshit isn’t worth anything.”
Dad skittered into the living room, laughing at me.
After I showered and dressed, I came back into the kitchen and shook some cereal into a bowl.
“Don’t eat,” Dad said.
“I’m starving here.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, jabbing his forefinger into my gut. “We’re having lunch at the Elks.”
“Why?”
“It’s Thursday. I always eat there Thursdays. Don’t you want to get out of here for a while?”
Dad insisted that we drive over in my rental. On the five-block drive to the Elks Club, he fiddled constantly with the car’s gadgets.
“Satellite radio? What’s that?”
“It’s beamed off of satellites, hundreds of stations. Anything you want. And you don’t have to worry about losing a signal.”
Dad whistled
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