by Victor Allen
**********
Joe Ross stood in the bedroom doorway and regarded his son. Kenny would someday grow up to be a big, chunky man just like him, but he didn’t think Kenny would talk to his own son from a doorway in a crumbling firetrap, or wear a light blue shirt, dark blue pants combo that was de rigeur for those who toiled with their hands; hands permanently scarred and calloused from working with dangerous chemicals. Kenny had something extra. He was quick and he had brains, probably inherited from Nancy. The world was his for the taking.
“I hear your mother made you a happy kid today.”
“She did,” Kenny said. “Thank you, too, dad.”
Joe grunted. “You’re welcome. You want to play some catch after supper?”
“Not tonight, if that’s okay. I want to read this book.”
“Okay. Just don’t neglect your homework, alright?”
Joe turned to leave and Kenny’s voice came over his shoulder: “Daddy?”
Joe turned back around.
“I was just wondering.” Kenny said, “if you ever wish for things?”
Joe considered. Kenny was very intense.
“A lot of times,” Joe said carefully. “A lot of times I wish that I could do more for you and your mother.”
“Do wishes come true?”
“I’m sure they do, but, Kenny, you have to work for them. And sometimes, what you wish for may not be the best thing for you. Like the Good Book says: God doesn’t give you what you ask for, He gives you what you need.”
Kenny seemed unconvinced.
“Anything else?”
Kenny shook his head.
“Not too late, okay? School tomorrow. Love ya, kid.” Joe left, a little disturbed, a little apprehensive, and not knowing why.
