“I used to tell people you just answered phones,” I said.
I had been carrying that for a month. Longer than that. Most of my life, really. It came out sounding exactly as small as it was.
She didn’t look hurt. She looked like she was thinking it over, the way she’d think over a crossword clue.
“I did just answer phones,” she said.
“Mom.”
“That’s the job, Jeffrey. Somebody has to pick up. That’s the whole thing. Most of them only need to know that somebody picked up.”
I didn’t say anything for a long time. I watched the combine’s dust rise up over the trees.
“You missed every one of my games,” I said finally. Not angry. Just saying it.
“I know.”
“I used to think you didn’t care.”
She turned and looked at me then. Really looked.
“I listened to every one of them,” she said. “On the scanner. When something happened at the field, a kid hurt, a fight in the parking lot, I’d hear it come through and I’d hold my breath until somebody said your name wasn’t on it. Every Friday for six years.” She looked back at the corn. “That’s how I watched you play.”
