And his shout was sucked into the silence.

Adam slowly raised his head. It is true that Cal had never looked into his father’s eyes before, and it is true that many people never look into their father’s eyes. Adam’s irises were light blue with dark radial lines leading into the vortices of his pupils. And deep down in each pupil Cal saw his own face reflected, as though two Cals looked out at him.

Adam said slowly, “I’ve failed you, haven’t I?”

It was worse than an attack. Cal faltered, “What do you mean?”

“You were picked up in a gambling house. I don’t know how you got there, what you were doing there, why you went there.”

Cal sat limply down and looked at his plate.

“Do you gamble, son?”

“No, sir. I was just watching.”

“Had you been there before?”

“Yes, sir. Many times.”

“Why do you go?”

“I don’t know. I get restless at night—like an alley cat, I guess.” The thought of Kate and his weak joke seemed horrible to him. “When I can’t sleep I walk around,” he said, “to try to blot it out.”

Adam considered his words, inspected each one. “Does your brother walk around too?”

“Oh, no, sir. He wouldn’t think of it. He’s—he’s not restless.”

“You see, I don’t know,” said Adam. “I don’t know anything about you.”

Cal wanted to throw his arms about his father, to hug him and to be hugged by him. He wanted some wild demonstration of sympathy and love. He picked up his wooden napkin ring and thrust his forefinger through it. “I’d tell you if you asked,” he said softly.

“I didn’t ask. I didn’t ask! I’m as bad a father as my father was.”

Cal had never heard this tone in Adam’s voice. It was hoarse and breaking with warmth and he fumbled among his words, feeling for them in the dark.

“My father made a mold and forced me into it,” Adam said. “I was a bad casting but I couldn’t be remelted. Nobody can be remelted. And so I remained a bad casting.”

Cal said, “Sir, don’t be sorry. You’ve had too much of that.”

“Have I? Maybe—but maybe the wrong kind. I don’t know my sons. I wonder whether I could learn.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just ask me.”

“Where would I start? Right at the beginning?”

“Are you sad or mad because I was in jail?”

To Cal’s surprise Adam laughed. “You were just there, weren’t you? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Maybe being there was wrong.” Cal wanted a blame for himself.

“One time I was just there,” said Adam. “I was a prisoner for nearly a year for just being there.”

Cal tried to absorb this heresy. “I don’t believe it,” he said.

“Sometimes I don’t either, but I know that when I escaped I robbed a store and stole some clothes.”

“I don’t believe it,” Cal said weakly, but the warmth, the closeness, was so delicious that he clung to it. He breathed shallowly so that the warmth might not be disturbed.