Norm grabbed another biscuit, scoured his bowl, and plopped it in his mouth. I followed suit soaking up some broth.

I pushed my chair back. “Excellent critter corral stew.”

“It’s on the menu often. Let’s go for a walk. I’ll clean this up later.”

Norm grabbed two headlamps, and the slam-bang of the door got the dogs pacing their cage.   

“Okay boys, let’s go.” Curly, Mo, and Shemp sniffed the cuffs of my pants. I held out a hand to them, but they bolted for the chicken coop. We made our way to the cornfield which had only stubs of stalks. Once we got on the worn path our lamps were unnecessary. The moon was sliced right down the middle, the half-light lit the way. The hounds bounced out into the field, did their business, and reentered the path, taking the lead.  

“Glorious night, don’t you think, Mark?”

“Yes. Quiet.” We walked on looking up and out, taking in the peaceful evening. “How long has it been since your wife died?”

“Thirty-six point five years.” Norm cycled a long breath. “I’ll never forget the cops at my door. They stood there like pall bearers. It was as if they handed me a search warrant for my soul.”

Norm watched the dogs latch onto a scent and run down a row.

“I had my shotgun by my side, as I do. The younger trooper rested a hand on his sidearm. The other said, Mr. Felks, ‘I have some bad news.’ I stepped out, leaned my gun against the wall, and slowly sat. ‘It’s Bess and Billy. They didn’t survive…’”

 Norm looked up. “There’s always a dark side of the moon; you just can’t see it sometimes. For many months all I saw was its dark side. That night someone or something turned off the sun like a switch. I kept on though, because of my Burton.”

I recalled the letter in his mailbox addressed to Burton Felks.

“It was an odd combo of grief. Burton lost his younger brother and mom. I was without my Rosalyn and Billy. We had recently moved out here to this five-acre estate and then a huge wrench of mortality was thrown into the mix.”

“Man, that’s awful.

“I honestly don’t know if I’d still be here if it wasn’t for Burton.”

He paused. The dogs returned and sat there in a row. I stood, a hand in my pocket. Norm let out a long breath and clicked his tongue. “You know, sometimes I just don’t know.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I drove him away. He was my firstborn. Acted like one too. Got after things. To him, talk was cheap, like the penny horse ride at the store. One day, when he was five, he said the oddest thing. ‘Dad, why do we pay a penny on a horse that doesn’t go anywhere?’ That about sums up his whole life.”

I kicked a stick. I was the first born too, only born, but didn’t act like one. Henpecked. My mother took the lead as my dad quietly provided. When she died, I realized how much I leaned into her. My dad put his hand to the plow harder and didn’t look back. Only child. Solitary man. Not the best combo.

Norm continued. “I didn’t know what to do with us. Burton did for himself, as usual. I tried to share my thoughts, to repair the rickety bridge between us. My efforts exhausted him somehow. When he turned seventeen, he told me about a ranch in Montana. I attempted to talk him out of it, at least until he finished high school. He had the last word though, a sentence which smelled like burnt rubber. ‘I’m tired of all your shoulds and shouldn’ts, I’m outta here.’”

Two days later he hopped a bus to Missoula. That was the last time I cried. No. I didn’t cry. I wept. Big tears like shooting stars, and nose drainage like a downspout. In that house back there, you would’ve seen a grown man spill his soul all over the wood floor.”

I turned and faced him, both hands in pockets. “So, you lost two sons.”

“Yep. For a long while. Total silence for a couple years. And it was nine years before I saw him again. Norm stopped and turned. “See that rise in the field?”

“Yes.”

“I was up on that rise on my evening walk when I saw a pair of headlights in my drive. My bloodhound, Buford, howled and ran toward the house.”

My son was like, what’s the word…cliché. I met him on the porch. He was right out of one of those spaghetti westerns, dingo boots, and a worn-out leather Stetson. Burton had come back a man. He was filled out. Sturdy. Ruddy, like a young Clint Eastwood. Then, I reached out to shake his hand.”

Norm stopped short. He bowed his head and shook it slightly. Slowly. Then took in the black and white moon for a moment.

“You know what he did, Mark? He refused my hand. He stood, statue-like as a smile surfaced and spread across his face, teeth all lined up in a row. ‘Hey, dad, it’s really good to see you.’ Then he stepped toward me and wrapped me up, and I clutched hard with two solid back slaps. ‘You too Burt, you too.’”

The moonlight caught Norm’s eyes half filled with emotion.

“Seared my soul. It was one of those memories framed and hung in the living room of my mind. If he had come back any earlier, I doubt if either of us would have been ready. He’s married now. They have three children and a place of their own near the dude ranch. Two or three times a year we get together. We exchange snail-mail every couple of weeks. If you have time, when we get back, I have something to show you.

He’s shown me so much already. He seemed a settled man after such extreme losses. I hope he can hand me some of that.

 “Mark?”

 “Oh. Yeah. I have time.”