He didn’t interrupt once.
He listened the way he used to listen to a cow that was off her feed. Quiet. Patient.
When I was done, he didn’t say a word about Travis.
He didn’t ask what was wrong with that man, the way some fathers would’ve.
He just asked one question.
“Does Travis know you’re asking me?”
“No,” I said.
He was quiet for a long time. I could hear the clock over his stove ticking. That clock’s been ticking in that kitchen since before I was born.
“Well,” he finally said. “What time do I need to be there?”
I told him JV played at five-thirty. Senior night would be right after. Around a quarter to seven.
He said he’d be there by six.
My father has never been late to anything in his life.
“Dad,” I said. “You’d have to walk all the way across the gym floor. It’s a long way. With the cane.”
