The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story by Brennan Manning, Greg Garrett Page A

Jack heard plenty of German in his years in Mayfield. The Germans had settled the Hill Country in the nineteenth century, planted vineyards, made beer, brought their great legacy of smoked meats that eventually became Texas barbecue.
    Jack was willing to consider forgiving the Germans a lot because of beer and Texas barbecue.
    “Mein Gott!”
Jack agreed, shaking his head. Putting in a fence was another backbreaking chore he’d rather not perform again in this life. “You’ve got a post-hole augur, right?”
    “Oh yeah,” Warren said. “Man, you remember digging postholes by hand?”
    “Oh yeah,” Jack said. He could almost feel the bruises and blisters again on his hands after a hard day of digging postholes without gloves. Because when did tough young men ever wear gloves to do manual labor? “Where should I put this stuff?”
    “Over by the shop,” Warren said.
    Jack pulled the truck around, backed it up to the door of a large tin shed. The shop was about the size of four oversized garages and a good thirty feet tall. Inside were a one-ton truck, a monstrous John Deere tractor, a combine, and a lot of tools and supplies. He spied a small stack of cement bags against one wall. “Over there?”
    “Yeah, that’d be great,” Warren said. He grabbed a bag under each arm, and the two of them began stacking the concrete.
    “Hey, Jack.” Warren grunted on their fourth trip as he tossed a bag on top of a pile that was probably a little too high now for safety.
    “Yeah,” Jack said, beginning another pile.
    “Are you back for good?”
    “I don’t know,” Jack said, returning to the truck. He was now carrying the bags on his shoulders. Although he’d been working out until recently, this was a new order of pain.
    “Van said you weren’t. He said”—his voice became apologetic—“he said you didn’t fit in anymore.”
    “Did he?” Jack looked down at himself, covered in gray dust. “Was it because of my skinny jeans?”
    Warren hooted as though Jack had made the prize joke of all time. “Nein. No, man.” He waved his hands dismissively. “Although ain’t nobody around here wears skinny jeans that’s not fifteen.” He suddenly became serious. “But you know what he meant. You’ve been a big shot. In the news. On TV.”
    “Yeah.” Jack grunted, shouldering his bag onto the stack. “Once. I think maybe those days are done.”
    “Nein,”
Warren said. “Don’t think that way, Jack. What about second chances?” He paused. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe Van thinks you’re just here taking a breather.”
    At that moment, Jack actually was taking a breather, holding on to the tailgate and panting for air. “Warren,” he said, when he could. “Why would I stay here?”
    “Why does anybody?” Warren asked. Then he answered himself. “For the beer. For the brisket. For the sunsets!”
    “For the football,” Jack added. “The pecans. The pecan pie.”
    “For the swimming hole at the creek,” Warren said. “When it’s a hundred degrees and you feel like the world is going to melt.”
    Jack picked up two more bags. “I’m a little out of shape,” he said.
    “You haven’t done this kind of work for a long time,” Warren said. “You were using your brain, man. Working with your brain.”
    “Huh,” Jack said. It was something less than agreement. He had spared himself backbreaking work, that was true.
    Was it honest work?
    Could he be proud of what he’d been so proud of?
    They stacked the last bags with a thud. Both of them were panting now. Jack hoped Nora Calhoun’s workers, whoever they were, would be at the house when he arrived so he wouldn’t have to off-load by himself.
    “You want a Shiner?” Warren asked.
    Jack was covered with sweat. He wiped the dust off the back of his left hand, wiped at his eyes with it, checked his Rolex.
    “Oh,
ja
,” he said.
    They sat in the sun, rocking on the front porch, sipping at cold Shiner Bocks at eleven in the morning.
    “Admit