Chapter 7: Sunday Dinner

My father lives in Brookline in the same brick house where I grew up.

The porch rail has been loose since 2011.

On Sunday at five he opened the front door in a Steelers sweatshirt and looked up at Winston.

Then up a little more.

"You're tall," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't call me sir. I carried mail for thirty-four years. I was called sir by dogs."

"Marty," Winston said.

"Better. Come in. Wipe your feet. Daria, he brought flowers."

"He brought lilies."

"Those are for the table?"

"They're for you," said Winston.

My father looked at the flowers, and at the man, and cleared his throat.

"Nobody's brought flowers in this house since your mother," he said to me.

Then he took them into the kitchen without another word.

Dinner was halushki, which is cabbage and noodles in a lot of butter, and sausage cut into coins.

We ate at the little table in the kitchen, under the clock shaped like a rooster.

Winston ate everything.

He ate seconds, and when my father held out the pan again, he took thirds.

"He can eat," my father said to me.

"He hasn't had a home meal in years."

"What did you eat last week?"

"Whatever Phyllis ordered," said Winston. "Usually something in a box."

"Who is Phyllis?"

"My assistant."

"Does she cook?"

"She has never cooked for me."

"Terrible," said my father. "I like her already."

I almost choked on a noodle.

My father leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach.

"So," he said. "Daria says the computer gave you a three."

"Three percent."

"That's low."

"It's the lowest it has ever given."

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