At Grace’s graduation party, he picked up my wallet to move it off the counter, and a photograph slid halfway out.
It was the torn half of an old snapshot that I had carried since I was eighteen.
A young woman laughing on a boardwalk, a Ferris wheel behind her, and a boy’s hand, one little finger bent crooked, resting on her shoulder.
David looked at it for a long time.
Then he slid it back very carefully and told me the smoke from the grill had gotten into his eyes.
There was no smoke.
I let it go.
The end-of-quarter party was at Delaney’s, a steakhouse in New Albany, in a private dining room with dark wood walls and a candle on every table.
Three days before, Carl told me he needed to arrive early.
“Some work stuff with Sheila before everybody gets there,” he said, knotting his tie in the hallway mirror.
