Inside the restaurant, I found a table away from the entrance.
The boys sat together.
His mother parked her wheelchair beside me.
I helped her settle the blanket again.
The coffee she had been holding earlier was still near the place where I had left it.
It had gone cold.
I asked whether she wanted another.
She shook her head.
"No, thank you."
The boys were unusually quiet.
That worried me more than anything else.
They were normally full of questions.
They talked over one another.
They wanted snacks.
They wanted to know what was happening every five minutes.
Now they just sat there.
The youngest kept looking at the entrance.
The oldest put the sign on the seat beside him.
I reached across the table.
"Are you boys hungry?"
Nobody answered.
Then the middle one shook his head.
I knew they had seen something they couldn't understand.
I wished I could explain it in a way that wouldn't hurt them.
But I didn't have the words yet.
A few moments later, Roscoe came inside.
Jasmine wasn't beside him.
He looked toward our table.
I watched him walk over.
His mother didn't move.
He stopped near her chair.
"Ma, can we talk?"
She looked up.
"We're talking."
He glanced at the boys.
Then at me.
"Privately."
His mother shook her head.
"You've had plenty of private time."
Roscoe's jaw tightened.
I looked down at the table.
I didn't want to interrupt.
His mother had heard what he said outside.
She had seen the woman.
She deserved to speak.
Roscoe pulled out a chair.
He sat down.
Nobody offered him coffee.
Nobody asked whether he was hungry.
That seemed to bother him.
He looked at me.
"How long have you been here?"
"Not long."
He nodded.
Then he looked at his mother.
"You shouldn't have come out in the cold."
She studied him.
"I wanted to see my son."
He looked away.
I could see the tension in his shoulders.
He had always been good at avoiding uncomfortable conversations.
When something went wrong at home, he usually had a reason.
The truck needed attention.
The road was bad.
He had been tired.
There was always something waiting for him.
I had learned to let things go.
His mother hadn't said much yet.
That was unusual.
She had always been direct with him.
Even when he was a grown man, she could tell him when he was being foolish.
Roscoe looked toward the boys.
"Where's my sign?"
The oldest pushed it across the table.
Roscoe picked it up.
He looked at the writing.
The cardboard was bent near one corner.
One of the letters had been colored twice.
It was clearly made by children.
He held it for a moment.
"That's nice, boys."
The youngest finally spoke.
"Did you bring our surprise?"
Roscoe looked at him.
His expression changed.
I could see him trying to find an answer.
He glanced toward the door.
Then back at the boy.
"Not right now."
The little one nodded.
He didn't ask again.
I felt something inside me tighten.
Roscoe put the sign down.
His mother watched him.
"Those children were excited to see you."
"I know."
"They were looking forward to this."
"I said I know."
His mother didn't raise her voice.
"Then why did you greet them like that?"
He looked at me.
I kept my hands folded on the table.
I wasn't going to answer for him.
He leaned back.
"Ma, it's complicated."
She looked at him for a long moment.
"Is it?"
He rubbed his forehead.
"Things happen when you're on the road."
His mother looked toward the window.
Outside, trucks were moving in and out of the fuel area.
Then she looked back at him.
"Your father worked hard too."
Roscoe said nothing.
"He spent long stretches away from home."
She paused.
"But I never had to wonder who he was bringing back with him."
Roscoe shifted in his chair.
I looked at her.
I hadn't expected her to say that.
She continued.
"Being away doesn't give you permission to forget your family."
He lowered his eyes.
For the first time, I noticed that he looked older than he had when he climbed out of the truck.
Not because of his hair.
Not because of the lines around his eyes.
Because he had run out of easy answers.
His mother reached for the edge of her blanket.
I helped straighten it.
She squeezed my hand.
Then she looked at him again.
"Your wife has been taking care of things here."
Roscoe didn't respond.
"She has taken care of me."
I stared at the table.
I didn't want praise.
I didn't want him to feel that he owed me something simply because I had helped his mother.
But I wanted him to understand that I hadn't been sitting around waiting for him.
I had been living a whole life while he was away.
His mother continued.
"And those boys love you."
The oldest looked down.
Roscoe glanced at them.
His expression softened slightly.
But it was too late to make the afternoon what it had been.
I reached for the cardboard sign and folded the loose corner flat.
It was a small thing to do.
Something I could manage.
Roscoe watched me.
Then he looked toward his mother.
"Can we talk at home?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
He seemed relieved.
But she added something.
"And you will listen this time."
He didn't answer.
I understood then that the conversation wasn't going to end at the truck stop.
Not for any of us.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: On the Drive Home, Nobody Sang, and the Little Cardboard Sign Lay Flat Across the Seat Beside Me
Forty Years of Goodbyes, Packed Coolers, and Promises I Never Thought I Would Have to Question
Part 6 of 20
