A Morning Like This (20 page)

“Nothing important.”

“Well, there must have been something.”

So there they sat, father and son, one chin propped on top of the other one’s head, while Braden began to try to answer.

“I was thinking… I was thinking…” His entire face crumpled and his words came out in sobs. “I heard you and M-mom when you
thought I was asleep… and I was thinking w-what I did… to make you and Mom be mad—”

When David realized, the truth felt like a boulder, crushing him.
No
.

“—be m-mad at each other and fight all the time—”

“Braden. No.”

“—because Brewster opened the door and came in and I h-heard you and I know it was s-something—”

“Sport.”

“—I did.”

“Listen to me, Braden. Stop. Listen to me.”

“What is it, Dad?” Braden’s voice wavered with hurt and concern and responsibility. “Why are you and Mom mad all the time?
What did I do?”

The security guards had discreetly left the room at the start of Braden’s sobs. David clamped his son against him so hard
that he knocked the air out of his own chest. “I’m sorry, sport,” he said, his insides twisting with love for this boy. “I’m
sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” How could he say it? How could David reassure his own son when he had no reassurances himself?
“It isn’t anything you’ve done. It’s just that your mom and me—”

He didn’t know how to go on.
This is Abby’s doing, not mine. I’ve been honest with her and she’s the one erecting walls of defense. Abby’s to blame for
this
.

“Daddy,” Braden whispered against his shirt. “I’m scared.”

David’s heart lurched. The only thing he could feel, after the other parts of today, was the complete possession and life
of this boy. He grabbed onto that one reality as if it were a climbing rope, saving him from the abyss. “Brade. Oh, sport.”
He dislodged his son and was down off the chair in an instant, balanced on the balls of his feet on Braden’s level. “You haven’t
done anything.”

“Why, then? What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Sometimes parents fight, and there isn’t anything to worry about. They just do.”

“This isn’t the same as that. I know the difference. Mom’s mad and you’re mad and I don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Braden, it isn’t you.”

Braden’s little face crumpled and his grimy fingers curled around his dad’s wrists. “Are you and mom breaking up? Mom’s talking
about it on the phone to her friends. I’ve heard her.”

“You’ve—?”

“Are you and mom falling apart or something? Charlie Hessler said his parents argued all the time before his dad moved out
and they got a divorce.”

“No,” David lied. “We aren’t falling apart.”

It was Abby who was doing this, and no one else. Abby on the phone with her friends. Abby who had refused to discuss the situation
with civility and who flung his broken marriage vows into his face like stinging cold water. Abby who accused him of making
the world fall apart for Braden, when she was the one who heaped kindling on the pain.

Sure, he had had an affair with another woman once. Sure, he had fathered another child. But Abby was the one who held his
offense against him like a fur trapper with live bait, goading a coyote forward. Abby was the one who brandished full-time
bitterness against him like a punishing sword.

Lord, I don’t want any part of this. We’re so broken that maybe it would be best if we just ended it and went our own separate
ways. Maybe it would be best if we hurt our son once now so he could start healing and he wouldn’t have to be hurt anymore.

Maybe.

Do You hear me, God? I don’t want this. I don’t want this
.

“Dad?”

David gripped Braden’s shoulders in helpless abandon. “Let’s go home, son. What do you say?”

June 23

Dear Susan,

I am waiting anxiously to hear the results of the blood test that should have been sent to you via the lab at St. John’s Hospital
on June 19. I didn’t tell Braden much about the situation. Children are so perceptive, especially smart children. He has sensed
the tension between Abby and me, and it has begun to become a problem with him. It is time we made some decisions in our family.
I have made one decision on my own. This is what I’m writing you about today.

I would like the opportunity to meet my daughter.

I know you have kept her secure and well taken care of. For that, Susan, I offer you my respect and my thanks. If we are measuring
good things from our relationship, we will measure the life of Samantha as one of those things. I regret that I didn’t get
the chance to know her when she was young. But one can never know how things would have turned out. Even if she’s said she’s
never wanted a father, do you think she might want one now? I want to offer her good things, nothing bad. But she needs to
be the one to choose. Maybe Braden can give her life. Maybe I can give her some fun.

Please respond promptly. We both know that time may be of the essence.

Yours in massive respect,

David Treasure

June 23

Dear Mother,

I am writing to let you know that it might not be best for you and Dad to drive to Newcastle for the Little League Wyoming
Shoot-Out Baseball Tournament this year. I don’t think it’ll be a problem to cancel your reservations at the Trail’s End Motel.
If you need the number I’ve got it. Remember, that’s the place we stayed last year where the air conditioners in all the rooms
had to be turned off in the morning so the maids wouldn’t blow the fuses when they did the laundry. I’m sorry to have to make
you miss that experience this year!

I need to be frank with you and Dad. Abby and I are having some problems. It wouldn’t be a good time for any of us to be together.
I know what you’re saying as you read this, Mother: “God can work miracles in a marriage if you’ll only let Him.” But there
is a lot involved here, so many different sides and, above all things, we feel like we have to protect Braden. At least, I
feel that way. Sometimes two people get so hurt that nothing can help them see their way out of it. We bring out the worst
in each other. Maybe we can’t go back to where we were before. If we could, I don’t think I would want to.

So you see, that baseball tourney isn’t going to be very much fun this year.

I know you’ll call when you get this letter. Please call me at the office. This is something that I cannot discuss with you
and Dad over the home telephone.

Your son,

David

June 23

Dear Members of the Presbytery Committee,

Upon receipt of this letter, please accept my official resignation as elder from the Jackson Hole Christian Center. Please
also accept my resignation from the finance committee at this time. I am stepping down per a conversation with Pastor Nelson
Hull on June 22. Per 1 Timothy 3:12, I have a situation in my household that demands attention and I do not feel I should
be serving the church in this capacity at this time.

I look forward to continuing in service at a later date. It has been a privilege to preside with you in servanthood to the
Body of Christ.

Sincerely,

David Treasure

P.S. Please also remove my name at this time from teaching sixth-grade Sunday school. Thank you.

A
s Abby commuted along Hall Street toward the shelter the next morning, she happened past Floyd and Viola Uptergrove’s house.

There stood Viola on the front porch as Abby went by, teetering up on the second rung of her walker, trying to hang a bird
feeder beneath the eaves.

Goodness, that thing could go right out from under her!

Abby screeched on the brakes and hopped out. As she ran up the sidewalk, Viola stood with her legs straddled, one on each
side of the walker, holding the feeder at arm’s length. Abby ran to her, grabbed the walker beneath her, and held it steady.
In another moment, she supported the woman’s elbow. “Why don’t you let somebody else help you with that?”

Viola, who had stretched to the full extension of her slight body in an attempt to attach the feeder, grasped Abby on the
shoulder with one feeble, impassioned hand. “What a dear you are, thinking you need to rescue me.” She wore a Mexican dress
with puffy sleeves and silver rickrack, as bright blue-green as turquoise stones. “Isn’t this the most lovely feeder? Floyd
built it for me this weekend. You know how the songbirds always come out this time of year.”

“I’ll get it up for you, Viola. I’ll fill it, too, before I go. It would be awful for you to take a fall.”

Viola tried herself once, twice again, before she acquiesced and handed the feeder to Abby. “Honest to John.” She climbed
down and brushed her hands together with purpose. “I don’t know why everybody around treats me like I’m ninety years old.
I’m only eighty-five.” She thumped her walker, which had wheels on the front legs and neon-yellow tennis balls on the rear
ones, into the house. “The thistle seed is in a paper sack in the refrigerator. I’ve got it labeled. Be careful not to get
that critter crunch. That stuff brings the magpies.”

“I’ll find the thistle for you.” Abby followed her into the kitchen and rummaged around the refrigerator shelves.

“Since you’re taking so much trouble, you’ve got to stay for a cup of tea. Why weren’t you at church this week, by the way?”
The woman turned, a moose hot pad like a puppet on one hand and a pinecone teapot in the other. Her blue eyes glowed with
light. “You and your husband have such a beautiful family. I love watching the three of you come into the sanctuary.”

If Viola Uptergrove noticed how quiet Abby became at that comment, she didn’t say a word. Viola scuttled around her kitchen
like a little nesting bird herself, bringing out sugar and slicing up a lemon, digging in the breadbox for muffins.

Abby found the thistle. “I’ll just—” She gestured outside. “I’ll be right back.”

“Good. You hurry. And don’t fall.”

Abby completed the task, without falling, in minutes. When she returned to butter, crème, and even lemon curd set out on the
table, Viola took her arm and steered her to a chair.

“I know you haven’t had breakfast. Kids your age never eat breakfast before they’re out the door.”