For one second, I wasn’t standing in a gym.
I was seven years old, sitting at the edge of the cafeteria line on a Friday, watching my father walk by with his cart.
He had winked at me.
I had thought it was because he was proud.
It was because he had been about to leave an envelope under the register.
My knees nearly gave way.
Then the heels started.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Millicent Rosenthal crossed the dance floor at a fast walk, the Birkin swinging from her arm, her husband hurrying behind.
Her face had gone tight and shiny.
“Tom,” she said. “That’s enough. Put the book away.”
Mr. Lombardi did not put it away.
He turned another page, very slowly, with one finger.
“There’s one more name I would like to read,” he said.
PART 3
I had seen that bracelet before.
I had seen that bag.
Four months earlier, on a cold Tuesday in January, they had walked into my father’s fun*ral twenty minutes late.
