LITMIR.BIZ

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terrifying weight. There. Where were we going?

      Behind me, as my father stood waiting, in the foolish hat, John had his hands on my shoulders, and I could practically feel his belligerence. It was only because John’s anger seemed so oversized that I was able to sympathize with my father even a little, to move an inch beyond my absorption in this new world of ours to wonder what lesser world my father had chosen, instead, to inhabit. John’s hands tightened on my shoulders and he forced me out the door.

      My father smiled. I thought how I must look to him, standing before the door with my shoulders high, as though John were still gripping them, and with the bag of food in my hands. It was like I had become, in the time of his absence, a kind of girl.

      “Let me look at you,” he said.

      So I went down the steps. He made a great show of circling my body. He touched my arms. “Okay,” he said, as if he’d just had a thought, something secret, something he wouldn’t tell me. He glanced once at the house to find John still watching him in a leaning-forward, aggressive manner that made him seem all pointy, rodentlike head. Then he looked around the neighborhood and seemed glad to be back. “I see they moved in,” he said. “Down the street.”

      “Yes.”

      “And tell me. Do they … associate with you? With John? Are there … block parties, and such?”

      “No,” I said.

      He looked down the street. “No, I didn’t think so. Come on.”

      We got in the car, and he kept looking at me as if waiting for the conversation to start, as if it were up to me. He turned the radio on but seemed not to find anything interesting there.

      “What’s in the bag?” he asked.

      I still held it, stupidly, in my lap.

      “Mom made me something to eat.”

      He looked, briefly, angry. “Put it in the back, Luca.”

      I did, and then it was as if he regretted getting angry. “So? School started? Eighth grade?”

      “Yes.”

      His voice was soft, but he knew how to put insistence into it. “And?”

      A great many things had in fact happened in the first three days of school. Mr. McCluskey, the gym teacher, had let down the ropes that hung from the ceiling of the gym and announced that by the end of the fall we were all going to have to climb them. A shudder had passed through the group of us. Then a boy named Andrew Weston had gotten a hard-on in the shower, and that had made us all forget the ropes. Everyone already knew things about Andrew Weston—the secret, vague things you could know about boys, the malformed boys who were part of every class. There were others: David Campbell, Alan Carney. Mr. McCluskey had come into the shower room and put his hands on Andrew’s shoulders and led him out. While the rest of us dressed, Mr. McCluskey sat in the gym office with Andrew and stared out through the Plexiglas at us, his mouth hard and straight, cautioning us not to say anything. Andrew had not come to our next class. Someone said his mother had come to get him.

      That was not all. Karen Meola was in all my classes. We didn’t speak. I looked at her fingernails, and thought, in a silence that seemed to me enormously loud and significant: I watched you paint them. There was a power to standing outside, to knowing things about people they didn’t know you knew, that I had just begun to apprehend.

      “Nothing,” I answered. “Eighth grade. Same as last year.”

      After that, we listened to the radio. My father settled back. “We’re going to the plant, Luca. In case you’re wondering. We’re going to Vanderbruek.”

      It wasn’t entirely a surprise, though my mother said he’d been fired. Vanderbruek was at least familiar ground. They made tiny machines—my father used the word “coordinates”—that were used in aircraft and, no one was ashamed to say it then, in bombs. This was peacetime, 1962. The Russians were the only threat, but if the Russians attacked, it was important to have bombs. That was the simple justification my father had given for his work, though it had hardly needed justification. He was an accountant, one of many. But he was in charge of a group. The plant was vast, the size of a small town. The parking lot was like the parking lot of an airport.

      He stopped at the side of the main road, near one of the lesser parking lots. You could not get into it unless you showed your ID. There were uniformed guards. The guard leaned out of his booth and stared suspiciously at my father, but my father waved to him, and the guard let him stay.

      “You’re probably wondering what we’re doing,” he said after a moment. It was that eerily silent time at the end of the day in a factory, just before everyone quits work.

      My father took out a cigarette and lit it. The way he did it seemed slow and pleasurable, and after he’d taken his first drag he looked down at his fingers holding the cigarette and scratched one of them. “See, I don’t work here anymore.”

      He squinted through the smoke out the window. His lips had thinned and gathered into what you could almost be fooled into believing was a smile. “You want to know why?”

      And suppose I didn’t?

      He leaned slightly toward me. “I’m going to tell you this, but I’m going to try to tell you in such a way that you believe I feel no rancor toward your mother. I’m not telling you this to turn you against her, okay?”

      “Yes.”

      “Good. Because she told them something about me. She’s angry at me, so she called this place and told them something she shouldn’t have. Someday I’ll tell you what that something is, but not now. So I had to quit. They couldn’t exactly fire me, but they made it clear it would be better if I didn’t stick around. So I quit.”

      For a while then, my father watched me not asking the next, obvious question. I sensed that he liked it that I wasn’t asking, but who could tell? I felt his eyes pass over me a long time.

      Soon the cars started coming out of the lots. It was quitting time. My father stopped looking at me and started looking at the drivers. His face was very serious, mildly recessed, anticipatory. He looked the way a man looks when he expects to be slapped but has already decided he will not slap back.

      Some of the men and women in cars returned his stare. Not all of them. There were too many workers at Vanderbruek for him to know all of them. But some of the ones who did know him stared and did not greet him. They might even have looked a little frightened of him. I saw one woman who looked that way, and she stepped on the gas as she drove past him. Then a big heavy Oldsmobile pulled up next to us and my father’s friend Vinnie Fratolino rolled down his window. “I got the air conditioner on, Lou,” Vinnie Fratolino said. Still, there was sweat on his massive face. My father leaned across me, so that our bodies were touching. He appeared glad that someone had stopped to greet him.

      “What did they do to you, Lou?” Vinnie Fratolino asked. Behind him, the line of cars had stopped in the heat.

      My father shrugged. “I had to quit. No other choice.” Now his hand was on my knee.

      “Assholes,” Vinnie Fratolino said, and shook his head from side to side. “Excuse me, I should watch my language,” he said, noticing me. His head was large and doughy, like a man’s head in a cartoon. He seemed to have parts missing—vital lines and pockets—as if he’d been drawn lazily, all cheeks, with a big affronted expression pasted on.

      “It’s all right,” my father said.

      My father’s gratefulness seemed to make his skin warm. He looked alert and happy, but Vinnie Fratolino stared at him with mild alarm. “So what’d you come back for, clean out your desk?”

      “No, I promised somebody a ride.”

      Vinnie Fratolino nodded, then looked at me, and back to my father. “You need anything, Lou?”

      “I’m fine,” my father answered. “Hey, you better

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