Chapter 17: The Porch Rail

On Wednesday my father had the ladder out before we parked.

It was five-thirty and the light was going orange over Brookline, and the gutter along the porch roof sagged.

"I'll hold the ladder," Winston said.

"You'll climb it," said my father. "Daria, go inside. Peel the potatoes."

"I'll help."

"You'll peel," said my father. "Man talk."

I went inside and peeled potatoes, badly, at the sink under the kitchen window.

The window was open an inch.

From there I could see the porch, the ladder, and two men with their backs half to me.

Winston climbed carefully and clipped the gutter back into its bracket with one hand.

My father stood below, with his arms crossed over the Steelers sweatshirt.

For a while they did not speak.

Then Winston came down, and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"Sit," said my father, and sat down on the porch step.

Winston sat beside him, with his long legs folded up.

The new rail stood solid at their backs.

"Will you hurt her?" my father said.

I stopped peeling.

It was not a joke.

It was the voice he had used for me at fifteen, when the school called about my mother.

"Yes," Winston said.

My knife stopped.

"You're honest," said my father. "That's not what I wanted to hear."

"I'd lie if I only wanted you to like me. I don't."

"Then say it right."

"I'll hurt her sometime," Winston said slowly. "Everyone who loves someone does, once. I'll be late. I'll be tired. I'll say the wrong thing."

"And?"

"And I'll tell her myself. Out loud. With the door open. I promised that already."

"You promised her."

"I'm promising you, now."

My father studied him.

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