It’s beyond him where Junior has obtained such self-restraint, such patience. The way the boy turns the gift to examine it, how he thumbs the line of smiley-face stickers, then looks up to reveal a smile of his own, so full of knowing it makes Henry shudder. Junior unpeels each strip of adhesive then presses the paper back, seam by seam, rather than shredding the gift open in a squealing flurry how any other birthday kid would. There’s almost a tinge of fear in the cautious way Junior undoes the wrapping, reminding Henry of the anxious, delicate technique he’d applied when changing the boy’s diaper the first couple times. At long last, after such prolonged anticipation, the gift is free of its brown shell, and the look on Junior’s face suggests he, too, might as well have opened up a load of infant shit.

The boy tilts the box, squints. “What is it?”

“It’s special. This is, well, was, when I was your age, one of my favorites. One of my heroes. Read it. What’s his name?”

“Macho Man Randy Sav … Sav … ?”

“Savage,” Henry says. “Like crazy or wild, but in a strong way.” He flexes his biceps, mimicking the doll’s pose. “Like your pa.”

“You’re not this strong, Pa.”

“Oh, yee-yuh?” Henry says, imitating the Macho Man’s notorious rasp. The boy doesn’t catch the reference. How would he?

“That was his catchphrase,” Henry says.

“But what makes him special?”

Henry is stumped. What exactly about Macho Man Randy Savage had so appealed to him as a kid? Was it only because Randy Savage’s olive skin and black hair had somewhat resembled Henry’s? Had it been the gruff, prematch diatribes the Macho Man barked into the mic, threatening adversaries and lauding his own invincibility? Was it the manic, Tasmanian-devil scuttle of his grappling style, or how he churned entire stadiums into a frenzy from the top turnbuckle before slamming into an opponent’s sternum with his signature finishing move, the flying elbow? Perhaps it had been Randy’s devotion to Miss Elizabeth, how any slight to her reputation would launch the Macho Man into a frothy rage that could only be satiated with a merciless battering in the ring, best finished off when Randy’s queen slid a folding chair under the ropes for him to clobber the offender into a gory, repentant pulp.

Such bloodlust and vengeance are no good for a child.

What a pageant of eggshell masculinity. All those glittering robes, pleather cowboy hats, and knolls of muscle packaging a man just as afraid, lonely, and love hungry as the next. Henry doesn’t want any of these traits to ever manifest in Junior. He ought to be doing all he can to nurture the boy’s tender core, protect it from the grindstone of reality before it pumices Junior into yet another heel-dragging blister like Henry.