Read Online A Quality of Light by Richard Wagamese - Free Book Online Page B

potatoes, beets and pie for dessert. Sound okay to you, John?”
    “Oh, yes, ma’am. Great.”
    “Well, you boys enjoy the snacks and have fun with the radio,” she said and returned to the kitchen.
    Johnny sighed with relief. I was beginning to discover that secrets were a hard thing to maintain. We munched on the cheese and crackers and listened to Curt Gowdy call the rest of that game before my father came in, washed up and whistled his way into the kitchen. Tiger Stadium was in Detroit, which was only a day’s drive away, but it was the sound of the Boston team, the Red Sox, with players named Carl Yastrzemski, Rico Petrocelli, Tony Horton and especially Tony Conigliaro that drew our hopes that day. Their names sounded like working men’s names. The kind of men I was used to seeing around me. Callused, gritty, down-to-earth and diligent men with families like my own, battered cars, hearty appetites and a chair on a porch they eased into when their days closed in upon themselves like the blooms on a rosebush. My mother’s call to supper broke our reverie, and we gave each other a firm thumbs-up and marched in to eat.
    My mother bowed her head for grace. Johnny looked uncomfortable, though he politely followed suit. She finished her blessing and my father and I followed with a diminished “Amen” before we raised our heads and looked at each other. Looking at each other, recognizing our presence and our connection, was as much of a ritual as the offering of grace. Again, Johnny appeared discomfited, but he nodded his head at each of us and grinned shyly.
    “Well,” my dad said, “this is a fine spread, Mother. Joshua, please hand the meat to John and let’s get at this feast! You boys must be hungry after all the painting you were doing.”
    Johnny and I looked wide-eyed at each other as he reached for the platter and I saw my parents trade a smirk.
    “What were you painting, son?” my mother asked.
    “Nothing, really. Just fooling around,” I said, uncomfortable with the lie.
    “Nothing really?” my dad said, voice rising. “There’s some kind of work of art on the equipment shed and you say ’nothing really.’ John?”
    “Umm. Well, it’s kind of a secret, sir,” Johnny said, reaching out to secure the potato dish I was offering his way.
    “Oh,” my dad said. “Secrets. Well. There’s good secrets and there’s bad secrets, I suppose. Would this be one of the good secrets, John?”
    “Yessir. It’s a good secret, eh, Josh?”
    “Yeah. It’s a school project,” I said. Johnny raised his eyes at my cleverness.
    “Will we get to see this project when it’s finished?” my mother asked.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Johnny said. “Everyone will get to see it.”
    “Well, that’s good,” my father said. “And when will that be?”
    “Don’t know. Maybe … two weeks?” Johnny said, grimacing.
    “That doesn’t seem like too long to wait,” my mother said.
    “Two weeks. Hmm. Well, I guess I can rest my worries about my equipment shed for two weeks. You guys aren’t going to move it or anything, are you?” he asked.
    “Oh, no, sir,” Johnny said. “It’ll be right there when we’re done.”
    “Good. Good. How’s the folks, John?” he asked.
    Johnny gulped down a mouthful of beans. He glanced around at us and I could sense his uneasiness with this turn of conversation. “Fine, sir. They’re fine.” He shoveled in a mouthful of potatoes.
    “Your dad’s never worked in the hardware business before, has he, John?” my mother asked quietly.
    “No, ma’am.”
    “And your mom. What does she plan to do in Mildmay? Will she work?” she asked.
    “No, ma’am. She doesn’t work. I don’t know what she’ll do.”
    “We’ll have to have them out here one of these days for a visit. We’d like that,” my mother said, smiling at Johnny.
    “They don’t go out much, ma’am.”
    “Surely they’d come to meet your new friend’s family?” she asked, surprised.
    “No,