Between These Walls by John Herrick Read Free Book Online Page A

on Monday mornings, a client would send an urgent question, which he would answer. When you face a problem, it feels as though that problem is unique to you. You don’t realize how many others have faced the identical challenge. And in this case, Hunter offered a boilerplate answer.
    To help keep his skills sharp, he spent time each Monday reading a sales-oriented newsletter or two in his email, searching for a tip that might help him seal his next deal. Especially in his current dry season.
    This morning, Hunter decided to drink his coffee black. He poured himself a cup in the kitchenette down the hall, then settled back at his desk. He had an appointment after lunch, which left him a few hours that morning to conduct research online. Company websites, news stories, marketing software—he tended to find his golden nuggets when and where he least expected them.
    He sure needed one.
    “Where are you?” Hunter murmured as he browsed news stories looking for any small, local companies that had announced plans to expand their operations or develop a new product.
    “Please help me find it, God,” he added. Throughout his days, Hunter tended to maintain recurring prayers to God. More like conversations with a friend than prayers.
    Hunter sensed his job was in danger. How much longer could his drought last before the ceiling crashed?
    His father had worried about his own job for as far back as Hunter could remember. The man, like Kara, had traveled on a constant basis all through Hunter’s childhood. Most often, Hunter saw his father on weekends, and by that point, his father had grown exhausted and wanted to relax.
    As a child, Hunter, on a constant search for connection with his father, found it difficult to develop the father-son bond he had seen among his friends’ families. Even as a youngster, when he spent the night at a friend’s house or joined them for dinner, he watched the interaction his friends’ fathers initiated with their kids. It looked so effortless to Hunter, as if neither party tried, yet an unspoken bond existed between them. Pats on the back; words of encouragement; those final, extra seconds of rough-and-tumble play before dinner. The kids seldom requested those things. And when those incidents occurred, they just happened. None of his friends entered into verbal agreements to engage in that behavior with their dads.
    Not a word spoken. Yet it spoke volumes to young Hunter.
    Here at his desk, Hunter craned his neck around the entrance of his cubicle and caught a glimpse of sunshine through a nearby window.
    Hunter recalled one Friday afternoon when he was seven years old. He had gotten home from school and had holed himself up in his bedroom. Sitting on the floor, thumbing through his collection of baseball cards, he separated his Cleveland Indians cards from the rest of the pack. He picked up his new Orel Hershiser card and admired its crispness, ran his finger along its firm edges. Its sharp corners took him by surprise as he tapped his finger upon them. His friend’s father had said the team was on the road to improvement and might even make it to the World Series in a year or two. Hunter’s eyes gleamed at the thought of going to a World Series game with his dad, though even at his young age, he knew his father wouldn’t be able to go.
    He’d heard a shout outside the house. Then laughter. The voice of someone several years older than Hunter. A voice, Hunter had noticed of late, that had developed a deeper timbre. Then he heard the voice of an adult who had joined in the fun.
    Hunter made his way to the bedroom window. From his vantage point on the second floor, he looked down upon his backyard and saw Bryce, his fifteen-year-old brother, throwing a baseball to their father. From the sight of Dad’s dark suit coat and blue, striped tie resting at the edge of the patio, Hunter figured his father must have just arrived home for the weekend a few minutes earlier. Bryce had caught him before