Walt Brandt walked with a hitch. One hip moved a beat behind the other, the way it would for the rest of his life. He was a lean man in a seed cap and work boots, and he didn’t look at his son first.
He walked right past him to my mother.
“Shirley.”
“Walt. You’re walking good.”
“I’m walking.”
Then he turned around to face his boy. I braced myself. I was sure he was going to shout.
He didn’t shout.
“You stood her in the sun,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“She kept me talking fifty-one minutes with a tractor on top of me. You know what she kept me talking about?”
Kyle shook his head.
“You. She asked me your name, and she would not let me quit saying it. She asked what position you played in summer league. She asked what you wanted for Christmas. Every time I shut my eyes, she said, Walt, tell me about Kyle. Tell me about Kyle.”
