Chapter 4: Notice of Closure

I had told nobody about the frozen frame of Colin's shaking hands, and I did not know how.

Tuesday's dinner had a guest, a present and a plan, and nobody had told me about the plan.

The guest was Dad's operations manager, who sat at the end of the table with a napkin tucked into his collar.

The present sat beside my plate, wrapped in the Sunday comics.

"An apology gift," Dad said. "From your mother and me."

I opened it.

It was a coffee mug that said "World's Okayest Son."

"It's a joke," Dad said. "You like jokes."

"It's a very good one," I said, and I set it carefully by the salt.

The guest laughed into his napkin.

Colin sat across from me and cut his chicken into squares, and then into smaller squares, and I watched his knife hand until it stopped being steady.

June sat next to him and cut nothing.

Mom waited until everyone had been served, and that is how I knew it was serious.

"Bobby, honey, the company's retirement dinner is Friday," she said. "Your father needs someone to give the toast."

"Dad can give the toast."

"Your father gives toasts like a man reading a lease."

"That's true," Dad said, and he did not look hurt.

"We need you," Mom said. "Five minutes. A few of the old things, a few of the new things. People will be so happy."

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