I’VE CHANGED OUT OF my clericals into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, checked on the food a couple of times, and checked out a little of that afternoon’s NASCAR race by the time Helen arrives, with Gladys in tow. Both look like they’ve been crying.
“Hey,” I say, standing to give Gladys a hug. “You all right, sweetie?”
She sniffs and wipes a stray tear with her lace handkerchief. “I am now, Dad. Thanks to Mom.”
I look at Helen. “Looks like I wasn’t needed for this.”
“There are some things, Tom, that only another woman would understand.”
“Well, why don’t I get us some food and you can try to explain it to me.”
A few moments later, we’re at the dining room table, digging into my beef stew and munching on homemade biscuits.
“You’re going to have to teach me how to make these for Nat
