Crackback by John Coy

invent a recipe for walnut pie.
    But being an inventor is a difficult job. If I were captured by aliens and taken to another planet to demonstrate our technology, I’d be worthless. I couldn’t explain how a computer or a cell phone works. I couldn’t explain something as simple as a zipper. It has two sets of teeth, but I don’t know how you get them to close. A zipper is actually quite amazing.
    Sometimes when I’m thinking about something like zippers, I wonder why and try to retrace my path. Zippers came from inventors, but how did I get to inventors? Oh yeah, walnut pie. Walnuts came from trees, which came from branches, which leads me back to Lucia.
    I don’t know if other people do this, and I’m not sure why I like it so much. Maybe because it’s mine. It’s my mind, and sometimes I like to watch it wander.
    â€œMiles, time to eat.” Martha knocks on my door.
    I still think walnut pie would be good, especially if it had that sweet goo pecan pie has.
    â€œWhat were you doing?” Martha asks.
    â€œThinking about walnut pie.”
    â€œYou’re weird.”
    I’ve been reading Dad’s moods for years, so when he sits down, I can tell he’s angry. These are the times when it’s best to lie low. Even Martha is quiet.
    â€œPass the carrots to your father, Miles,” Mom says.
    Dad takes a bite of chicken and spits it out. “This is cold. How long has it been sitting around?”
    â€œI can put it in the microwave for you,” Mom says.
    â€œI hate microwave chicken. I’ll eat it cold like I do most nights.”
    We all know anybody who challenges him will get ripped to shreds, so we eat in silence. Dinner in our house is so often a disaster. Maybe we should call it quits and eat separately.
    Finally, Martha tries. “This squash is delicious, Daddy.”
    â€œEmmm,” Dad grunts. It’s harder for him to get angry at her.
    â€œWhat’s bothering you, dear?” Mom asks.
    â€œI’ll tell you what’s bothering me.” Dad sets his fork down. “The gasket plant is shutting down for two months. ‘Excess inventory,’ they say. Management’s been on themto increase production, and now they say they’ve got too much. How many guys do you think are going to buy paint when they’re not getting paid?”
    â€œMaybe some of them will do some painting with their time off,” Mom says. “We’ll manage for a couple of months.”
    â€œA couple of months.” Dad slams his fist and the glasses shake. “I’m not worried about two months. Don’t you see? This is what they want to do permanently. Shut down the plant. Send the jobs to China. What do you think is going to happen to this town if they close that plant? What do you think are the chances of a downtown paint store surviving?”
    Mom doesn’t answer and Dad raises his voice.
    â€œI found out I need eighteen hundred bucks for the transmission because somebody doesn’t know how to use a clutch.” He looks at Mom. She tried to teach me to use the stick shift on his car. I lurched around a few times before deciding that automatic was fine.
    â€œAnd Miles has college coming up in a couple of years.” He turns to me. “I thought last year when you started as a sophomore, you might have a shot at a football scholarship. That would have helped. Now you don’t even play. They don’t give scholarships to people who sit on the bench.”
    Let it go. Let it go. Let it go, I repeat to myself. I want to scream.
    â€œThere are other scholarships besides football,” Mom says. “Maybe Miles could get an academic scholarship.”
    â€œAcademic scholarship? What makes you think those are easy to get? You have to be smart, not just a smart-ass.”
    â€œMichael,” Mom says sharply.
    Martha’s bent over her plate crying.
    â€œWhat are you crying about?” he