The Road Home by Michael Thomas Ford Page A

without thinking. “He never would have known.”
    â€œBut I would,” said Lucy. “Besides, it’s a good book. Don’t let all the footnotes fool you. Jerry was mad about footnotes, so I left them in, but you can skip right over them. It won’t make a bit of difference.”
    Burke nodded. “I will,” he promised. “Thanks for bringing it up.”
    When Lucy was gone, Burke opened the book again. He turned to the introduction and read the first sentence. “The name Ethan Allen is well known to students of early American history and is recognizable also to those who appreciate a well-turned table leg or an elegantly proportioned hutch.”
    Burke chuckled at the joke. One of the chief complaints of his history professors at the University of Vermont was that one of the most important figures in the history of the state had been reduced in the minds of the general public to a mascot for a furniture company. It was, as far as they were concerned, yet another slight against their state, which they universally believed to be unappreciated by the larger union. When the state’s tourism bureau held a contest to replace the much-derided “I LoVermont” slogan, the history department only half-jokingly launched a campaign for it to be changed to “We are more than maple sugar.”
    He hadn’t thought about that in years. His time at the university had been short. He’d stayed only a year before deciding that teaching history was not his passion. He had discovered photography, thanks to the school’s requirement that all freshmen take one class in the arts, and had immediately known that it was what he wanted to do with his life. His father had been less enthusiastic about his son’s choice, and at first had refused to pay for any further education unless Burke came to his senses. Burke’s mother had played mediator, however, and it was decided that Burke would go to school in Boston to pursue what his father insisted on calling “his new hobby.”
    For the next three years, whenever he spoke with his father, Burke had endured the same question: “How’s the picture taking coming along?” Even when his work began receiving awards and being included in gallery shows, Burke’s father had received the news with little enthusiasm, always asking how much Burke was being paid for his work. Eventually Burke had just stopped talking about it altogether, sharing his personal accomplishments with his mother and limiting his discussions with his father to the job he had taken as a staff photographer for a Boston newspaper.
    Things had improved over the years. As it became evident that Burke would be able to support himself as a photographer, his father had grudgingly accepted that perhaps his son had not made a foolish choice, after all. But there remained in their relationship an underlying sense of disappointment, which no amount of professional success or personal satisfaction could completely overcome.
    He wondered if his father had put Lucy up to giving him the book. Was it his father’s way of pointing out what Burke could have done with his life? He had come up to see Burke only twice since his arrival, and then for only a few minutes at a time. Although Burke sensed no resentment of his being there, now he couldn’t help but question if this was his father’s way of saying, “I told you so. If you had just stuck with history, this never would have happened.” As if Burke’s decision of twenty-two years before was the first in a chain of easily preventable mistakes culminating in the crash that had landed him in his father’s house.
    Or, he told himself, maybe Lucy just thought you might be interested in her husband’s book.
    He tried not to think about anyone’s motivations as he read Jerry’s book. This was easier than expected, as he quickly found himself caught up in the story. He knew