Page 3 of The Prodigal Son

“He’s such a sweet boy,” my mother says.

“He sure is,” my dad replies.

“Where did he get such talent? Certainly not from my side,” she jokes.

I stop in the hallway and listen when I realize they’re talking about me. It’s quiet before he adds, “I think he gets it from me.”

My mother giggles softly. “Since when do you play the guitar?”

“I played when I was his age,” he says.

“You did?”

“I was damn good too. Probably could have been a star.”

A smile stretches across my cheeks as I lean against the wall.

“Oh, Truett.” My mom giggles.

My dad gets mad a lot, sometimes at me and sometimes at my brothers. So when he’s in a good mood, the house feels nice. Everyone’s happy. I wish it was like this all the time.

Tonight, he seems like he’s in a good mood, and I don’t want to miss it. Taking a step forward, I enter the living room to find my parents sitting next to each other on the couch. My mom is cuddled up under Dad’s arm. She has a glass of wine in her hand and he has something stronger-smelling in a short glass.

“There’s the star now,” she says softly as I enter the room.

“Get on over here, Hank Williams.”

With a bashful smile, I cross the room and climb onto the couch between them. My mom strokes my hair and kisses the side of my head.

“You sure did good tonight,” my dad says, patting my leg. “Where’d you learn to play that guitar so well?”

I shrug. Truth be told, the music director at Dad’s church taught me the basics when he passed down his old guitar to me, but the rest I learned on my own. But I want to be humble for my dad.

“I’m so proud of you,” my mom whispers.

“Here, boy. You earned this.” My dad passes me his short glass, and I scowl at it as the acidic stench reaches my nose.

“Truett!” my mom hisses. “He’s nine!”

“So? I was younger than him the first time I had my first taste of whiskey. Besides, he proved himself tonight, didn’t he?”

She huffs and looks away.

“Just a sip,” my dad says, holding it in front of my face.

It smells terrible, like fire and cinnamon. I don’t want it.

But he looks so proud. So I take it.

Just a sip.

“There you go,” he says as he watches me tip it back. There’s a large ice cube in the middle of the glass and it clinks loudly as it rolls around. When I inhale through my nose, it burns, so I try not to breathe as I wait for the liquid to touch my lips.

When it does, I sip a tiny bit of the alcohol into my mouth.

It’s worse than fire. Worse than acid, cinnamon and smoke all rolled into one. It doesn’t just burn; it screams its way down my throat, but I’m not sure it makes it all the way because suddenly I’m coughing like the devil. I end up spitting saliva and whiskey all over my lap.

My dad laughs loudly as he pounds his palm against my back, but it doesn’t help. The fire won’t go away. I want to throw up, but since my dad is laughing, I smile up at him.

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