The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story by Brennan Manning, Greg Garrett

eyes.
    “Okay, then,” Jack said. “I’d be grateful.”
    They walked out to the sidewalk. The wind was whipping down the street, and Jack hugged himself for warmth.
    Father Frank still drove that ancient Chrysler LeBaron, maroon, with a white vinyl top.
    “I know,” Frank said, opening Jack’s door. “1986. Beat up as its driver.”
    “You’ve had this car as long as I’ve known you. Known about you,” he corrected himself as they got inside. Frank turned the heat on high as soon as the engine warmed up.
    “It still gets me where I’m going. That’s enough. And I don’t think I could ever replace all my cassette tapes. Not on a priest’s salary.”
    “Well, there you go,” Jack said. He was beginning to warm up, and he felt pleasantly buzzed. Father Frank pulled something from the backseat—a cassette. He pushed it in and an Irish reel filled the car.
    “Really?” Jack asked. “You are a walking stereotype, Father Frank.”
    “What can I say?” Frank shrugged. “We love what we love.”
    “I expected Van Morrison,” Jack said.
    “Ouch,” Frank said, backing into the empty street and pulling forward onto the snow-blown main street. “And here I was just listening to ‘Moondance.’”
    It was a short drive, and they let the silence sit. It was not uncomfortable.
    “It’s the corner up ahead,” Jack blurted out, perhaps unnecessarily, because Frank pulled easily into the drive behind his father’s car. Dennis and Mary had left.
    “Your father and I have had the odd conversation of late,”Frank said, after he shifted into park. He looked meaningfully across at Jack. “You’ve come home at a good time.”
    Again, Jack could not help but laugh, a bark of amusement totally out of proportion to the mirth he felt. “Is that how it seems to you?”
    “Yes,” Frank said. “Indeed it does.”
    Jack reached for the door handle, but Father Frank reached his hand out. “This broken-down old priest would enjoy a word or two with you again sometime.”
    Jack turned to go. Then he nodded. “It’s a small town,” Jack said.
    “That it is. Give my best to your father. Good night, Jack.”
    He waved as he backed onto the street, then drove off into the night. Jack stood watching him go, shivering, wondering if he would wake up his father. Wondering if he really wanted to go inside at all.
    He walked up to the lighted porch, raised his fist to knock, but hesitated.
    It opened then, of its own accord. Or so it seemed.
    His father stood in his plaid flannel robe, thin white legs exposed beneath it.
    “Come inside,” he said. “I made coffee.”
    “Hey,” Jack said, closing the door behind him. “I—”
    “I made coffee,” Tom repeated. He led Jack by the arm to the table. They sat and sipped and thought about what they might say to each other.
    “I’m sorry about your sister,” Tom said at last. “She shouldn’t have said those things.”
    Jack shrugged. “She’s got a right. She’s been here. I wasn’t. I’m–I’m sorry I ruined the evening.”
    His father waved it away. “You can’t ruin ham casserole. I left you some if you want to warm it up.”
    “I think I do,” Jack said, making his way to the fridge. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and not much then. “Father Frank said I should tell you hello.”
    “Did he?” Tom asked. “Father Frank?”
    Jack was spooning some casserole onto a plate and paused. “I guess because he’s been keeping an eye out for you.” Jack looked back at his father. “Since you’ve been sick and all.”
    Tom nodded, his head down. “He has.”
    “I’m sorry,” Jack said, returning to the table. “I’m sorry you couldn’t tell me. It’s no wonder Mary’s mad at me. I’d be furious.”
    “Well,” Tom said. He shrugged. “You’re here now.”
    “It doesn’t make up for—” Jack stopped himself; it sounded horribly familiar.
    They listened to the microwave hum, the fan breathe out the scents of melted cheese and diced