supper."
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat it anyway. You need the protein."
Scott replaced his napkin in his lap and, with attitude,
forked the
steak and sawed his knife through it.
"During the holidays, I let you get by with eating junk," Wes
said.
"From now until spring training is over, I'm going to monitor your
diet. No more desserts."
"I made an apple pie for tonight," Dora said.
The sympathetic glance she cast Scott irritated Wes more than
the
idea of the pie. "Half of what's wrong with him is
you
.
You've spoiled him, Dora. If you had your way, he wouldn't even go to
college. You'd keep him here and baby him for the rest of his life."
They finished their meal in silence. Scott kept his head down,
shoveling food into his mouth until his plate was clean, then asked to
be excused.
"Tell you what," Wes said, giving his son a magnanimous wink,
"let
your dinner settle, then I don't think one slice of pie will hurt you."
"Thanks." Scott tossed down his napkin and stamped from the
kitchen.
Seconds later they heard the door to his bedroom slam shut and loud
music come on.
"I'll go talk to him."
Wes caught Dora's arm as she tried to stand up. "Leave him
alone,"
he said, guiding her back into her chair. "Let him sulk. He'll get over
it."
"Here, lately, he sulks a lot."
"What teenager doesn't have mood swings?"
"But Scott didn't have them until recently. He hasn't been
himself.
Something's wrong."
With exaggerated politeness, Wes said, "I'll take my pie now,
please."
She kept her back to him as she sliced the pie that had been
cooling
on the counter. "He loves you, Wes. He works hard to please you, but
you rarely give him credit for anything. He would respond better to
praise than to criticism."
He groaned. "Can't we get through one conversation without you
slinging some Oprah-inspired bullshit on me?"
She served him his pie. "Want ice cream?"
"Don't I always?"
She brought the carton to the table and spooned a scoop onto
his
pie, then returned the carton to the freezer and began to stack the
dishes. "You're going to drive Scott away. Is that what you want?"
"What I want is to eat my dessert in peace."
When she turned to him, he was surprised to see a flicker of
Dora
the coed, whom he'd first seen sashaying across campus in a tennis
skirt, racquet bag slung over her shoulder, T-shirt damp with sweat,
fresh from a match that he learned later she'd handily won.
That afternoon her eyes were flashing with anger because she'd
seen
him toss a candy wrapper onto the carefully cultivated lawn in front of
the athletic dorm where he and several buddies were lounging on the
wide verandah.
"Dumb, dirty jock." She said it like he'd crapped in a water
fountain or something. Then she walked over to the wrapper, picked it
up, and carried it with her to the nearest trash can. She continued on
her way without ever looking back.
His cronies, including Dutch Burton, whistled and catcalled
after
her, making lewd remarks and propositions when she bent over to pick up
the wrapper. But Wes stared after her thoughtfully. He'd liked her pert
tits and firm ass, sure. They'd heated up his loins. But he'd been
blown away by her "and the horse you rode in on" attitude.
Most coeds swooned when he walked into a room. Girls notched
their
bedposts same as guys, and sleeping with a star athlete ranked high. At
that time, he and Dutch were the football team standouts. He
quarterbacked. Dutch carried and caught. Girls withheld nothing from
them, and usually they were given even more than they asked for. It was
easy to get laid or blown, to the point where easy had lost its allure.
He'd liked this girl for showing him some sass.
He wondered what had happened to Dora's sassiness. Since
they'd
married, it had all but disappeared, although there was a trace of it
in her expression now.
"Is apple pie more important to you than your son?"
"For chrissake, Dora, I only meant—"
"One day you'll push him too hard. He'll leave us, and we'll
never
seen him
"I'm not hungry."
"Eat it anyway. You need the protein."
Scott replaced his napkin in his lap and, with attitude,
forked the
steak and sawed his knife through it.
"During the holidays, I let you get by with eating junk," Wes
said.
"From now until spring training is over, I'm going to monitor your
diet. No more desserts."
"I made an apple pie for tonight," Dora said.
The sympathetic glance she cast Scott irritated Wes more than
the
idea of the pie. "Half of what's wrong with him is
you
.
You've spoiled him, Dora. If you had your way, he wouldn't even go to
college. You'd keep him here and baby him for the rest of his life."
They finished their meal in silence. Scott kept his head down,
shoveling food into his mouth until his plate was clean, then asked to
be excused.
"Tell you what," Wes said, giving his son a magnanimous wink,
"let
your dinner settle, then I don't think one slice of pie will hurt you."
"Thanks." Scott tossed down his napkin and stamped from the
kitchen.
Seconds later they heard the door to his bedroom slam shut and loud
music come on.
"I'll go talk to him."
Wes caught Dora's arm as she tried to stand up. "Leave him
alone,"
he said, guiding her back into her chair. "Let him sulk. He'll get over
it."
"Here, lately, he sulks a lot."
"What teenager doesn't have mood swings?"
"But Scott didn't have them until recently. He hasn't been
himself.
Something's wrong."
With exaggerated politeness, Wes said, "I'll take my pie now,
please."
She kept her back to him as she sliced the pie that had been
cooling
on the counter. "He loves you, Wes. He works hard to please you, but
you rarely give him credit for anything. He would respond better to
praise than to criticism."
He groaned. "Can't we get through one conversation without you
slinging some Oprah-inspired bullshit on me?"
She served him his pie. "Want ice cream?"
"Don't I always?"
She brought the carton to the table and spooned a scoop onto
his
pie, then returned the carton to the freezer and began to stack the
dishes. "You're going to drive Scott away. Is that what you want?"
"What I want is to eat my dessert in peace."
When she turned to him, he was surprised to see a flicker of
Dora
the coed, whom he'd first seen sashaying across campus in a tennis
skirt, racquet bag slung over her shoulder, T-shirt damp with sweat,
fresh from a match that he learned later she'd handily won.
That afternoon her eyes were flashing with anger because she'd
seen
him toss a candy wrapper onto the carefully cultivated lawn in front of
the athletic dorm where he and several buddies were lounging on the
wide verandah.
"Dumb, dirty jock." She said it like he'd crapped in a water
fountain or something. Then she walked over to the wrapper, picked it
up, and carried it with her to the nearest trash can. She continued on
her way without ever looking back.
His cronies, including Dutch Burton, whistled and catcalled
after
her, making lewd remarks and propositions when she bent over to pick up
the wrapper. But Wes stared after her thoughtfully. He'd liked her pert
tits and firm ass, sure. They'd heated up his loins. But he'd been
blown away by her "and the horse you rode in on" attitude.
Most coeds swooned when he walked into a room. Girls notched
their
bedposts same as guys, and sleeping with a star athlete ranked high. At
that time, he and Dutch were the football team standouts. He
quarterbacked. Dutch carried and caught. Girls withheld nothing from
them, and usually they were given even more than they asked for. It was
easy to get laid or blown, to the point where easy had lost its allure.
He'd liked this girl for showing him some sass.
He wondered what had happened to Dora's sassiness. Since
they'd
married, it had all but disappeared, although there was a trace of it
in her expression now.
"Is apple pie more important to you than your son?"
"For chrissake, Dora, I only meant—"
"One day you'll push him too hard. He'll leave us, and we'll
never
seen him
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