that?”
“Because she’s so controlling. I hate that.” Before Tom could say anything, Lindsay added, “And, yes, I know it’s because she loves me, but it still bugs me. Hey, can I take a friend down to Uncle Dave’s this year?”
He let the abruptness of her change of subject slide. “No, you can’t. You know our vacation time is family only.”
“Then, can I take some friends out to the lake for a weekend this summer? You know, sort of a going away party?”
“I’m still paying for the graduation party you had three weeks ago.”
“So we can’t use the cabin?”
“Yes . . . if I can chaperone.”
She stuck her pizza-coated tongue out at him, and they laughed together.
Lindsay went up to her room after dinner. Tom had just settled down to watch TV when he remembered he’d promised Annie to look up longrifles in his father’s books. As he climbed the stairs, his thoughts were on his father.
Jack Cogan had been a country boy, and never happier than when he was fishing or hunting. He’d also been a constant reader who seemed to know a little bit about everything—in the eyes of his sons, at least. The premature exit of his father from Tom’s life had left a wound that never healed, and pulling the box of his father’s books from the closet now was enough to cause the cavity to ooze painful memories.
His mother had sorted through his father’s things the day after the funeral. The way Tom remembered it, she’d made only two piles. One she declared trash to be burned and the other she classified bound for the Salvation Army. He and Dave had furtively snatched things from both piles. Tom’s rescued treasure was a box of books.
But that box was the second one he rescued. The morning after his father’s death, he sneaked into his parents’ closet and took the old shoe box his father kept in the back, hidden behind his old military duffle bag. Many times during Tom’s childhood, he’d seen his dad sitting on the edge of the bed looking at something from what he called his “box of memories.”
When Tom first got possession of the box, he saw the contents only as a collection of photos and an odd assortment of papers, but as he looked through the box at later stages of his life, his perceptions changed. His father had been selective when he compiled his photo collection. One professional print, labeled RM/2c John T. Cogan , showed his father dressed in World War II Navy whites. A few pictures were of his paternal grandparents and uncles and aunts, but most of them were snapshots of Dave and Tom, some with their father and some without.
“Whatcha doing?”
Tom looked up to find Lindsay standing in the doorway. “Just looking at some of my dad’s things.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure.” He scooted the box over to make room for her on the bed.
She picked up one of the photos and smiled. “This is you and Uncle Dave, right?”
“Yep.”
“It’s funny to see you as a kid. I mean, I know you were one, but it’s hard to think of you that way.” She picked up the Navy photo. “I’ve never seen Grandpa this young. He was really handsome. You look like him”—she grinned—“except for the handsome part.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She flipped through the stack. “How come there’s no photos of Grandma?”
For the first time, Tom realized there was not a single photo that showed his mother. His mother had not been camera shy; in addition to the usual snapshots, she’d posed for numerous studio portraits. And even if she’d been the one behind the camera for some of the snapshots in the box, Tom distinctly recalled the picnic when a couple of these pictures were taken, and he knew there were other shots that included his mother because he’d seen them in her family photo album. His father had purposely excluded his wife from his private photo collection. Tom sympathized, but he would never admit that to Lindsay.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe Uncle Dave has them
“Because she’s so controlling. I hate that.” Before Tom could say anything, Lindsay added, “And, yes, I know it’s because she loves me, but it still bugs me. Hey, can I take a friend down to Uncle Dave’s this year?”
He let the abruptness of her change of subject slide. “No, you can’t. You know our vacation time is family only.”
“Then, can I take some friends out to the lake for a weekend this summer? You know, sort of a going away party?”
“I’m still paying for the graduation party you had three weeks ago.”
“So we can’t use the cabin?”
“Yes . . . if I can chaperone.”
She stuck her pizza-coated tongue out at him, and they laughed together.
Lindsay went up to her room after dinner. Tom had just settled down to watch TV when he remembered he’d promised Annie to look up longrifles in his father’s books. As he climbed the stairs, his thoughts were on his father.
Jack Cogan had been a country boy, and never happier than when he was fishing or hunting. He’d also been a constant reader who seemed to know a little bit about everything—in the eyes of his sons, at least. The premature exit of his father from Tom’s life had left a wound that never healed, and pulling the box of his father’s books from the closet now was enough to cause the cavity to ooze painful memories.
His mother had sorted through his father’s things the day after the funeral. The way Tom remembered it, she’d made only two piles. One she declared trash to be burned and the other she classified bound for the Salvation Army. He and Dave had furtively snatched things from both piles. Tom’s rescued treasure was a box of books.
But that box was the second one he rescued. The morning after his father’s death, he sneaked into his parents’ closet and took the old shoe box his father kept in the back, hidden behind his old military duffle bag. Many times during Tom’s childhood, he’d seen his dad sitting on the edge of the bed looking at something from what he called his “box of memories.”
When Tom first got possession of the box, he saw the contents only as a collection of photos and an odd assortment of papers, but as he looked through the box at later stages of his life, his perceptions changed. His father had been selective when he compiled his photo collection. One professional print, labeled RM/2c John T. Cogan , showed his father dressed in World War II Navy whites. A few pictures were of his paternal grandparents and uncles and aunts, but most of them were snapshots of Dave and Tom, some with their father and some without.
“Whatcha doing?”
Tom looked up to find Lindsay standing in the doorway. “Just looking at some of my dad’s things.”
“Can I see?”
“Sure.” He scooted the box over to make room for her on the bed.
She picked up one of the photos and smiled. “This is you and Uncle Dave, right?”
“Yep.”
“It’s funny to see you as a kid. I mean, I know you were one, but it’s hard to think of you that way.” She picked up the Navy photo. “I’ve never seen Grandpa this young. He was really handsome. You look like him”—she grinned—“except for the handsome part.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She flipped through the stack. “How come there’s no photos of Grandma?”
For the first time, Tom realized there was not a single photo that showed his mother. His mother had not been camera shy; in addition to the usual snapshots, she’d posed for numerous studio portraits. And even if she’d been the one behind the camera for some of the snapshots in the box, Tom distinctly recalled the picnic when a couple of these pictures were taken, and he knew there were other shots that included his mother because he’d seen them in her family photo album. His father had purposely excluded his wife from his private photo collection. Tom sympathized, but he would never admit that to Lindsay.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe Uncle Dave has them
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