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"
Hey
,
Dad
,
welcome
home
.
"
"
Thanks
.
"
He
hung
up
his
gun
belt
and
stepped
out
of
his
boots
as
I
bustled
about
the
kitchen
.
As
far
as
I
was
aware
,
he
’
d
never
shot
the
gun
on
the
job
.
But
he
kept
it
ready
.
When
I
came
here
as
a
child
,
he
would
always
remove
the
bullets
as
soon
as
he
walked
in
the
door
.
I
guess
he
considered
me
old
enough
now
not
to
shoot
myself
by
accident
,
and
not
depressed
enough
to
shoot
myself
on
purpose
.
"
What
’
s
for
dinner
?
"
he
asked
warily
.
My
mother
was
an
imaginative
cook
,
and
her
experiments
weren
’
t
always
edible
.
I
was
surprised
,
and
sad
,
that
he
seemed
to
remember
that
far
back
.
"
Steak
and
potatoes
,
"
I
answered
,
and
he
looked
relieved
.
He
seemed
to
feel
awkward
standing
in
the
kitchen
doing
nothing
;
he
lumbered
into
the
living
room
to
watch
TV
while
I
worked
.
We
were
both
more
comfortable
that
way
.
I
made
a
salad
while
the
steaks
cooked
,
and
set
the
table
.
I
called
him
in
when
dinner
was
ready
,
and
he
sniffed
appreciatively
as
he
walked
into
the
room
.
"
Smells
good
,
Bell
.
"
"
Thanks
.
"
We
ate
in
silence
for
a
few
minutes
.
It
wasn
’
t
uncomfortable
.
Neither
of
us
was
bothered
by
the
quiet
.
In
some
ways
,
we
were
well
suited
for
living
together
.
