Chapter 8: Sunday in Parma

My father's house in Parma has one rule on Sundays, which is that dinner is at two and nobody discusses feelings.

I had told him on the phone that I was bringing a friend.

He had said, "Is it a man?"

I had said yes.

He had said, "I'll make the good roast," and hung up.

That was a speech, for Vernon Pellam.

Tobias stood on the porch with a loaf of rye bread and a plant he had picked out himself.

"What does he like?" he asked.

"Dogs, the Browns, and not being asked questions."

"I can do two of those."

My father opened the door in a flannel shirt with his cap in both hands.

He is sixty-one and thin as a fence post, with a grey crew cut.

His face has not changed since I was a child.

He looked at Tobias for a long second.

Then he said, "You're the artist."

"Yes, sir."

"Come in."

He stepped aside and nodded once, which is how my father says welcome.

Dinner was the roast, with potatoes, and green beans from a can, and a basket of rolls.

We sat at the old kitchen table with the plastic cloth, and for ten minutes nobody said a word.

I was used to it.

My father and I have eaten in silence for twenty-six years, and I think of it as a kind of company.

Tobias ate with great attention and did not fill the quiet.

Halfway through the second helping he put down his fork.

"Mr. Pellam," he said. "May I say something about the two of you?"

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