Nine Suppers in a Bass Boat

Tyler

On the fifth night our son came by with his wife.

Tyler is twenty-four. He works at the elevator in town and he and Amber live in a little rental by the school. He had heard about it from Amber, who had heard about it from her mother, who had heard about it at church.

He stood at the end of the driveway with his hands in his jacket pockets. Amber stood beside him holding a pan of brownies.

“Mom,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Eating supper with your father,” I said. “Are you hungry? It’s tater tot casserole.”

Tyler looked at his dad. Rick looked back at him from the driver’s seat with a fork in his hand and his co-op cap pushed back on his head.

“Don’t look at me,” Rick said. “I’m just a guest here.”

Amber laughed out loud. Then she put her hand over her mouth. Then she climbed up the step stool and sat down on the front deck, because Amber is a farm girl and nothing much scares her.

Tyler stayed on the driveway a while longer. Then he pulled a kitchen chair up beside the boat and ate off the maple table, like a man who had been seated at the kids’ table at Thanksgiving.

When Rick went inside for more iced tea, Tyler leaned over the side of the boat.

“Mom. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, honey.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

I looked at my son. He has his father’s shoulders and his father’s way of standing with his weight on one foot. He has never once in his life raised his voice at his father.

“No,” I said. “Your dad’s talking to himself just fine. Let him.”