After Michelle took off, Henry set the TV into the gap he’d built for it on the shelving unit, then began unpacking the boxes of his parents’ books. Not that he or Michelle would ever read them, but they’d been his parents’ most cherished possessions. There was something authoritative and smart-feeling about their presence, and they went well with the living room’s look. Just decorations for now, but maybe one day their daughter would page through them, fill her head with facts and histories. A book fell to the floor, its pages open to the ceiling. In the margins were both his parents’ handwriting, logging different responses to the same text. He kissed the page, felt silly, and so set it back on the shelf. He turned on the TV so he would feel a little less alone.

On the spines were the names of storytellers and thinkers Mom and Papa had studied, admired, and probably hoped Henry would too one day. He found one of the peer-reviewed journals that had published an article by Mom. The margins of every article except her own were ribboned with her tight, balloon-animal cursive. Knowing Mom, it’d probably been ignored out of embarrassment, similar to hearing your own voice recorded on tape. He read through the abstract and introduction, combing the scholarly jargon for a single glimmer of Mom’s patient, sunshower voice, but to no avail. He closed the book and set it on the top row, where the fancier ones belonged.

By the time all the shelves were filled, there were still another two crates left to unpack. Henry sifted through the boxes, trying to remember if he’d seen any of these dust jackets forked in front of his parents’ faces. There were too many. Again he scanned the names already on display, hoping these were the right ones, those who had inspired or challenged his parents the most besides each of their alltime favorites: Keynes, Marx, and Rawls for Mom, then Baldwin, Nabokov, and Bulosan for Papa.

It occurred to him what was missing. A name that merited a prominent place for display. Next to the academic journals holding Mom’s work, he tugged out four hardcovers. In this fresh gap, he placed the white receptacle holding what was left of Papa, carefully turning the cylinder so his name appeared alongside all the others.

Michelle and Al clomped inside, laughing. Al wore a shiny red tracksuit that hung baggy off every inch of him except where it strained over his stomach like a sunburnt manatee. The pant cuffs were tucked into a pair of yellow, unlaced Timberlands that had seen better days. To conceal his receding hairline, he’d shaved the rest of his dome. Almost gave him a tough, thuggish look, but from eyebrows down, his face was as rosy and earnest as ever. He framed his stubby teeth in a smile before booming Henry’s name.