This is his “important person” voice, which Mom hates—where he sounds like he’s talking to one of his secretaries and everything has to happen in a hurry.

“Is Mom back yet? Is she going to come?”

He looks me in the eyes now. He kind of slows down.

“I think your mom wants to leave us alone tonight.”

“Okay, we can go,” I say.

We don’t talk much at the restaurant; it’s always pretty loud anyway, and we both just kind of look at other people. My dad has his phone out.

“Mom says phones are bad for you,” I tell him.

“Yeah, well,” he says, but puts it away when the food arrives—a big platter of spaghetti and meatballs, which we’re going to share. The waiter brings a couple of clean plates and wipes them with the cloth in his hand. He asks me if I want another Coke because I finished the first one already. I look at my dad, who nods. He’s drinking red wine.

I think both of us feel better after eating something; he doesn’t seem in such a bad mood. He says, “All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.” He’s talking about himself—like he’s the dull boy. “You know what’s hard sometimes about being a kid is that when you’re growing up . . . your childhood coincides with the part of your father’s life where he’s trying to make a career for himself. I mean, this is it for me—this is where all the hard work pays off.”

He has another sip of wine, and laughs.

“You know how they pay you for hard work? They give you more hard work. But listen, Ben,” he says. “None of this is your problem. I plan to see a lot of you before I take off. I’ve got two or three clear days. Just a few things to sort out but mostly clear days. What do you want to do? Anything at all. You name it.”

“I’ve never been to Coney Island,” I tell him.

And my dad laughs again. “I had no idea you were going to say that.” Then he leans back in his chair and looks away. “There must be a lot of things I don’t know about going on in that head of yours,” he says.

Three

“WE HAVE TO GO on the Thunderbolt,” I say to Mom when she comes in to wake me a few mornings later. “Jake says it’s the best ride in Coney Island.”

Mom sits on my bed. “Well, you can tell your dad,” she says, and when I look at her, she goes on: “I’m not coming along. This is boys’ time. I want you two to spend some time together.” After a moment, she adds: “That’s what he wants, too.”

I sit up a little. “Do you want me to—”

“What?” she says.

“I mean, talk to him about . . . London. Do you want me to tell him that I don’t want him to go?”