No milk, no butter, so the three of them sat side by side on the sofa pushing spiral noodles and hot dog chunks through bowls of orange broth. The bourbon sank Henry into a divot in the cushion, as if lowering himself rather than lifting the bowl in order to slurp down the salty juice. He thought back to the last time there’d been three sitting on this sofa. Instead of the sprig of his son carefully blowing on a spoonful of noodles, in Henry’s periphery had been Al, chuckling and swiping a credit card across the surface of a mirror. The TV, switched on but soundless, was now tuned to the only channel that came in, a grainy, public access something. Two white men sat across from each other at a round table. The set behind them was pitch black, so dark and shapeless that gauging its size was impossible. Could have been filmed in outer space or a coffin, for all Henry could tell. No way to know much about that place, and that’s why there was one thing about it which he was absolutely, 100 percent, totally certain about. It was the exact same place where, at this very moment, Al must have been.

The boy tipped his bowl and drank the last of the neon soup. He used the heel of his palm to napkin his lips. Smiled, gave a full-belly sigh. Then, when he rose, Henry snatched the boy’s arm—harder than he would have liked.

“Forget something?” Henry said.

The boy looked scared. Henry held firm.

“Mom?”

“Hen, let go. You’re hurting him.”

He pulled the boy close. The spoon rattled, then fell to the floor. “Your mother made you a nice, warm dinner. Now what do you say?”

“Mom?”

Henry made a nightmarish, game-show buzzer screech. “Wrong. Try again.”

“Hen, what in the fuck do you think you’re—”

“Teaching our son manners. Etiquette. Respect.” He drew the boy closer still. “Now, Junior. After somebody takes the time to do something kind for you, what do we say?”

“Thank you?”

“Thank you, who?”

“Thank you, Mom?”

“Thank you, Mom, for what?”

“Thank you, Mom, for dinner?”

“And how was that dinner?”

“Henry.”

“Dad, I don’t—”

“Pa. My name is Pa,” he said. “Now. Thank your mother for the warm, delicious dinner. Compliments are important. Courtesy, it’s called. Gratitude, see? Now let’s hear it.”

The boy looked down at the spoon. It lay still. The boy was shaking.

“Now.”

“Hen.”

“Now.”

“Thank you for the warm, delicious dinner, Mom.”

Henry roared, exultant, proud. At last, he released the boy’s arm to applaud him with a stern clap on the back. He raised his jar to Michelle, a toast to this feat of parenting.