174 The Meadow “Throwing the ball. Helping him change the oil in his truck. Bringing him a beer after he finished mowing the lawn.” Jim was getting misty-eyed. He realized, too late, that it had been a mistake to drink tonight. “Do me a favor. If you meet a woman and have a baby, quit this job. Learn how to build houses or fix cars so you can stay home and see your kids.” Jim blew his nose with the napkin from under his cocktail glass, but it was damp and fell apart, leaving a fleck of white behind on his cheek. “Where were you born, Ed?” “Stockton,” Ed said, sipping from his beer. “I mean your people,” Jim said, wadding up the napkin into a tight ball. “Before California.” “I know what you meant,” Ed said tartly. “I was starting to like you.” Ed pulled out his wallet. “I’m not racist,” Jim said. “Sure you’re not. Nobody is.” “It was an innocent question. Just conversation. You look like you’re from someplace else.” “Thanks for the beer, Jim.” Ed slapped a ten on the bar. “I stop at two. My old man taught me that. Have a good night.” Ed grabbed his coat and walked out, leaving his unfinished beer on the bar. Jim looked around. Except for him and the bartender, the place was empty. “Slow night, eh?” Jim asked him. “We usually shut down about this time, actually.” The bartender turned away, picked up a damp rag, and began wiping down the bar. Jim looked at his phone. It was only 8:30. He’d already called Karen. He dialed his son, but it went straight to voicemail. As he waited to leave a message, a text came through from Jimmy. “Can’t talk. I’m at the library. Is something wrong?” Jim typed back. “Just wanted to say hi. I’ll call tomorrow.” It was just as well Jimmy didn’t pick up. What did he have to say to his son? That he’d met a new friend, a man Jimmy’s age, and promptly insulted him? Jimmy wouldn’t be surprised. He
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