Lynetta had on her usual pout, so that wasn’t it. But my father’s idea of saying hello was to lay into me about the lawn.
“No sweat,” I told him. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” All that got me was a scowl.
Then Mom says to my granddad, “You tired tonight, Dad?” I hadn’t even noticed him sitting there like a stone.
“Yeah,” my father tosses down the table at him. “That girl working you too hard?”
My grandfather straightens his fork on his napkin and says, “That ‘girl’ is named Juli,
and no, she isn’t ‘working me too hard,’ as you so callously put it.”
“Callous? Me?” My dad laughs and says, “Developed quite a soft spot for that girl, haven’t you?”
Even Lynetta let her pout go for a minute. These were fighting words and everyone knew it.
Mom nudged Dad with her foot, but that only made things worse.
“No, Patsy! I want to know why your father has the energy and inclination to befriend a complete stranger
when he’s never done so much as toss a baseball around with his own grandson!”
Well, yeah! I thought. But then I remembered—I owed my grandfather. Owed him big-time.
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