Chapter 9: Sunday Dinner

My dad's bungalow is the last brick one on the block before the tracks.

He has grilled out back every Sunday of my life, in sun, sleet and one tornado warning.

On Sunday at four he was out there in his CTA jacket, turning brats, when I came through the side gate with my boss.

"Dad, this is Leon."

My dad looked at him.

He looked at the good coat, the haircut, the shoes.

Then he looked at the broken roller arm wrapped in a dish towel in Leon's hands.

"That the part?"

"Yes, sir."

"Give it here."

Leon gave it to him.

My dad unwrapped it.

"Somebody hid this break. Somebody's an idiot." He wrapped it back up. "You eat brats?"

"I'll eat anything you're cooking, sir."

"Don't sir me. You're not on a bus."

He handed Leon the tongs and walked into the garage.

Leon stood there holding the tongs.

"What do I do?"

"Turn them," I said. "Don't let them split. If they split, he'll know."

I watched my boss, who was selling my company, sweat over six brats.

Through the garage window I could see my dad at the lathe.

One brat split.

"Ruddick rule," my dad called from the garage without looking up. "You split it, you eat it."

Leon ate it standing at the grill.

Dinner was at the picnic table, in our coats.

My dad didn't talk to Leon for the first ten minutes.

Then he put his fork down.

"So you're selling it."

"I came here to."

"That's not an answer."

"Your daughter says that too."

"She gets it from me." My dad chewed. "How many jobs?"

"Forty."

"Forty families."

"Yes."

"You ever been laid off, Leon?"

"No, sir."

"I have. The CTA cut a thousand of us one winter. Four months on unemployment with a kid in sixth grade."

Leon didn't say anything.

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