Shame by Greg Garrett Page A

anticipating how much I’ll be on display in preparing two equally hopeless basketball teams to play each other)? I’m not even sure I understand myself, and I thought I had me pretty much doped out at this stage in my life. Now I find out that there’s a whole lot I’ve assumed to be bedrock-solid about myself that turns out to have been shifting sand.
    Forgive me. I’m babbling, and probably to no effect. It is getting late, and I should be in bed. When I see you in December we will solve all my child-rearing problems, get the farm’s books in order, see a well-played game between basketball titans, and play dominoes until we drop. That last, at least, is a promise I think we can keep.
    Take good care of yourselves. We miss you and look forward to your visit.
    Your son,
John
    October 20, 1994
    Miss Candace Tilden
1425 E. Fifth
Albuquerque, NM 87106
    Dear Candy,
    Hey, Kid! Thanks for the letter and for the update on important events in your life. I have, as you see, noted the new address, as I’m sure Mom and Dad will do when you next write them, which I hope you will do soon (hint, hint). Like you, I don’t know how they’re going to react, seeing as how they don’t even know Arturo exists yet (!!!), but as I see it, the possibilities are limited to three: there will be shock, surprise, and dismay (although I hope not, and maybe I have eased the way for you a little thanks to my scarlet past); there will be grudging acceptance, with a suggestion that you two find your way to the altar as soon as practical; or there will be absolutely no reaction, since you are twenty years old and capable of making your own decisions. Like you, I hope for the last and fear the first. I suppose we’ll see what we shall see.
    Don’t let connubial bliss or whatever you call it interfere with your studies, or with Arturo’s. Is he still on target to graduate in May if he finishes his dissertation? I think it’s an impressive accomplishment, and I hope you’ll relay that on to him. I once thought I might be doing something like that, but at least I can enjoy his achievements, and yours too, of course. I’m proud of you both, and I’ve realized recently that I don’t say those words often enough to the people I love. Forgive me for that.
    Anyway, the time is now. Break the news. If Mom calls, I won’t just up and tell her, but if she asks, I’m not going to lie to her. Don’t put me in that position, okay? Even if telling them is hard, putting it off won’t make it easier.
    Ask one who knows.
    Lots going on here, but I don’t feel capable of writing about it just now. Maybe with some distance I will look back on all of it and laugh. But right now, it feels like I’d just like to go back and start over again from the beginning.
    Dangerous thoughts, I know. Try not to do things you’ll regret, okay?
    Love,
John

Communal Raccoon Suicide
    Since it was Sunday morning, I had my church clothes on underneath a pair of manure-stained coveralls and had pulled on some knee-high boots to take me through the black primeval morass that the cow pens had become after a cold fall rain. It was those boots—and the cow bog—that kept me from getting to the house as quickly as I should have, because when Lauren came to the back door screaming for me to come quick, they were killing each other, it seemed like it took a superhuman effort to slurp through the mud and manure, and once out, I ran lead-footed across the backyard, my boots weighed down by pounds of clinging muck.
    I did not spend much time considering the question of who could be killing each other; with Michelle already gone to Sunday school like the loyal teacher that she was, it could only be B. W. and Michael, and although Michael and B. W. hadn’t had an actual fight since they were little kids, when Lauren’s words shrilled across the distance between us, it suddenly seemed to me