Chapter 15: A Tablecloth

The clerk at the county vital records window had seen a great many fathers, and she didn't look up until Kent said his son's name.

"Eli Nash," he said. "He's five in October."

She slid a form under the glass.

It had two lines for a father and a line for the child's name.

Kent took the pen on its little chain.

His hand shook, so he set the form on the counter and flattened it with his palm.

He signed Kent Irwin.

He crossed the W over, the way his real one always did.

"That's it?" he asked.

"That's it," the clerk said. "Unless Mom wants to say something about the name."

Everybody looked at me.

Eli stood on a plastic chair, chin on the counter, eating a sticker.

"What name?" he said.

"Yours, baby."

"Is it changing?"

"It's getting bigger," I said.

I had thought about this all night.

Eli Kent Irwin was the name on Joyce's forged form, and I wasn't leaving her one piece of him.

"Eli Nash Irwin," I said.

Kent closed his eyes for a second.

"That's three names," Eli said.

"Yep."

"Can I have four?"

"Not today," the clerk said.

"Then I'm keeping all three," Eli said. "I'm collecting."

Kent made a noise into his sleeve.

At five-thirty that evening he knocked on my front door, in a clean shirt, holding a grocery bag.

"It's a date," he said.

"Eli's coming."

"I know. I brought my own tablecloth."

The diner on Scottsville Road had red vinyl booths and a counter full of pie.