From Garrett’s father.
Prescott Winslow, sixty-eight, who had made the binoculars joke at a Thanksgiving table and had not, in two years, said one word to me that wasn’t a joke.
He stood up.
“Corinne.
Sit down.”
“Prescott — “
“I said sit down.”
He looked at me.
“Danielle.
The thing I said about binoculars.
At Thanksgiving, year one.”
“I remember.”
“I’ve thought about it since the wedding.
I’ve thought about very little else, which at my age is inconvenient.”
He put his napkin on the table.
“My father sold tires.
I have spent forty years making sure nobody in this county remembers that, and I’ve done it by saying things about other people’s mothers.
I’d like to stop being a man who does that.
I’m going to start by saying it at this table instead of in my own head.”
Blythe was crying.
