“Dad wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, he wants to talk to me . . . ,” she says in a funny kind of voice. She walks into the living room, drying her hands on her apron.

“He says he can’t come.” I follow her quietly. I want to warn her. “He’s not going to be able to make it.”

She’s already angry when she picks up the phone.

“So you’re not coming,” she says.

For the next few minutes, I only hear her side of the conversation. “You realize what this does to him,” she says. “It’d probably be easier if you didn’t make promises you can’t keep. It doesn’t matter . . . that doesn’t matter. It’s what he hears. He hears that you want to see him, and then you don’t. I’m the one who has to deal with him . . .”

“Mom,” I say. “Mom, it’s all right. I’m all right.”

But it goes on like this for another few minutes, and then she hangs up. “Come here,” she says afterward, and opens her arms. There are tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Ben. It’s better just the two of us, anyway. You and me, kid.” I let her hold me, because it’s what she wants.

“I’m fine,” I say, talking into her apron. “He’s just working hard, he explained it.”

“It’s not your job to make excuses for him,” she says.

The next day is Christmas, another sunny day. I go into the garden after breakfast and poke around the bamboo for a while, hoping Mabley comes out. Then I remember, she’s in San Antonio. The trampoline is covered in leaves. So I take out my bike from the shed and ride around the neighborhood. A couple of boys are playing football in the street, but I don’t know them. The swimming pool is empty in the park. Nobody’s really using the playground, except the kiddy bit, with little slides and swings; a couple of dads are leading their toddlers around. The grass is yellow; the basketball court has wet patches on it: it must have rained last night. Eventually I bike home again—the day seems pretty long.

Mom is in our bedroom, where I’m not allowed to go because she’s wrapping gifts. Granma’s fussing in the kitchen.

“Maybe you’d like to call one of your friends,” she says. “One of your friends from New York.”

“I don’t know Jake’s number. I never used to call him, I just knocked on his door.”

“I’m sure your mother can find it,” Granma says.

The first time I call, nobody answers. It’s exciting to hear it ring, and I can see the hallway in his apartment where they keep the phone. Funny to think that just because I pressed some buttons, two thousand miles away in New York, there’s this noise . . . just a few floors down from where I used to live. But when the answering machine finally comes on, I feel relieved. I don’t leave a message.