Page 22 of Worth the Trip

“I disagree with both of y’all.”

Pops laughed, and we kept working. The faucet fought harder than necessary, which he took personally. I was working the basin wrench around a stubborn fitting when his voice came through the metal clinking beneath the sink.

“You still staying late?”

“Sometimes.”

“Most nights.”

I glanced toward him. “You keeping attendance now?”

“You leave before sunrise.”

“Practice.”

“Come home after dark.”

“Football.”

“Every day?”

I turned the wrench again. “Season gets busy.”

“For a season.”

My hand stopped.

I looked over. “What that mean?”

Pops rolled backward and sat up, wiping his hands on the old, red shop towel hanging from his back pocket. He wasn’t looking at me when he answered.

“A job’ll take whatever you keep handing it. Mornings. Nights. Weekends. Then have you thinking you doing something wrong if you keep one for yourself.”

That sounded suspiciously specific.

“You speaking from experience?”

“Mistakes.”

Now he had my full attention.

Pops could admit an error when circumstances forced him into it. Calling one a mistake without legal representation present was practically a press conference.

“When I was your age, I thought being a good husband and daddy meant saying yes every time somebody needed me. Overtime. Side jobs. Church. Family. Neighbors. If I could do it, I figured I was supposed to.” He looked toward the kitchen doorway before continuing. “One day, your mama asked why I worked so hard building a life I was never home long enough to enjoy.”

“What’d you tell her?”

“Nothing worth repeating.”

I smiled slightly.

He didn’t.

“She remembers the Saturdays I stayed home more than she remembers them checks.”

That one stayed with me longer than I wanted it to.

Pops picked up the flashlight again. “You doing good, Son. Don’t twist what I’m saying. Langston’s lucky to have you, and them boys lucky too. But you ain’t the only competent man on that staff.”