We were crossing into Ohio, when Becca called. She was just out of surgery. Surgeons spent the day removing cancer from her body.

Becca is my 12-year-old goddaughter. The last time she was in the hospital, they took her vision. This time, it was her ear they were after.

I was out of town for work. Rolling farmland passed our windows. Bobby was driving. We were performing our two-man show in Ottawa County.

I picked up my phone.

“Hello,” came the little-girl voice, still groggy from anesthesia. “I’m done with surgery.”

“How did it go?”

Long pause.

“They cut my ear off, Sean.”

I was smiling, to keep from crying.

“I know.”

There was no spunk or spirit in her voice. She had been in the hospital for seven hours.

Meantime, our car was passing historic barns, two-story farmhouses, antique townships, grain silos, spring wheat. It looked like driving through an episode of “The Waltons.”

And suddenly I remembered—don’t ask me why—how my mother used to love the Waltons. When I was a kid, she called me John Boy, because I reminded her of John Boy. John Boy and I were both writers, both unpopular with girls, both so unattractive we had to trick-or-treat by phone.

“How are you feeling?” I asked the kid.

“I’m okay,” she lied.

Long silence.

“They cut off my ear,” she said again.

“I know.”

Another silence.

“Are you in pain?” I said.

“No.”

Our car passed a vehicle towing a tractor on a flatbed trailer. Bobby waved at the man as he sped by. Bobby is 73, father of two.

“Hey, Becca?” said Bobby, leaning over to speak into the phone.

“Yes?” she said.

“Do you want to hear a joke?”

“Um.”

Bobby winked at me, and he assumed his Dad Voice.

“There was once a man who had gas pains,” said Bobby. “And whenever he tooted, the toot made the sound, HONDA! HONDA! HONDA!’”

Long silence.

“Okaaaaay?” said Becca.

“So one day,” Bobby went on, “the man went to the doctor and told the doctor about his gas problem. He told the doc, each time he tooted his butt went ‘HONDA!’

“So the doctor made the man open up his mouth, and he inspected the man’s teeth.”

“The doctor said, ‘I know what the problem is, you have an abscess tooth.’ So the doctor pulled the man’s tooth.”

Silence on the phone.

We passed a few cattle trucks.

“Okaaaaaay?” Becca finally said. And I could hear her giggling a little. Not much, but a little.

“Do you want to know WHY the doctor pulled out the man’s tooth?” asked Bobby.

Silence.

“Yes,” she finally said.

“‘Because,” Bobby said, “Everybody knows the old saying: Abscess makes the fart go Honda!”

More silence.

Bobby and I just looked at each other.

“Do you get the joke?” I asked, Becca.

She was laughing now. “Not really. But you said fart.”

Bobby leaned closer to speak into the phone. “It means we love you, Becca, we love you so very much. And we’ve been praying for you all day. We’ve been praying so hard that God is probably sick of hearing from us.”

More silence.

The quiet child’s voice said, “Thank you.”

We hung up the phone. The car interior went silent again. Then and only then did John Boy allow himself to cry.