Next Thursday, Mr. Tomski comes to dinner again. He brings flowers again, and it all happens like it did last time, it’s kind of awkward and boring and I don’t know what to think about him.

He’s got big hands, that’s one thing I notice. And tough, thick knuckles. He doesn’t always know what to do with his hands. He puts them on his lap like he’s hiding them away, but then when he talks somehow one of them escapes—he puts his arm out to make a point, then feels embarrassed, and the hand goes back on his lap. But he doesn’t talk much. Mostly he listens.

“I’m so pleased,” Mom says, “about the basketball. Ben’s like a new person—I see kids talking to him in the hallway. They know his name, it’s made a real difference.”

“Well, he’s been working hard,” Mr. Tomski says. “I don’t know what Ben’s getting out of it yet, but it’s made a difference to me.”

Mom puts her arm around me—she’s sitting next to me at the kitchen table. “It takes a while, but we’re getting settled in.”

It’s like she wants to show off how close we are.

Granma brings out a roast chicken and sets it down on the table—the steam from the tray gets in her face, she blows her hair out of her eyes. She says to Mr. Tomski, “Will you do the honors?” and passes him the carving knife. His tie is tucked into his shirt, but he rolls up his sleeves and leans over the chicken—he’s good with a knife, very careful, and carves out nice fat pieces of meat.

“It’s good to have a man in the house,” Mom says.

They talk about school while we eat—Mom does most of the talking. Mr. Tomski likes to ask questions. He asks Granma about her husband, and we have a long conversation about the merchant marine. Mr. Tomski knows a lot of military history—it’s one of his hobbies—and Mom says, “Go on, Ben. Why don’t you show him Granpa’s pocket watch, the one Granma gave you?”

I don’t really want to, but I get up anyway and go to my room. Then I sit on the bed for a minute—the lights are out, I’m not really doing anything. I’m just sitting there for as long as I think I can get away with it. The watch is on my bedside table, and I hear Mom calling out, “Ben? Can’t you find it?” so I pick up the watch and come out again and show it to Mr. Tomski. I’m kind of standing by his chair and he takes it gently out of my hand with his rough fingers.

“This is a very fine instrument,” he says to me, looking me in the eye. “You must be proud to own a timepiece like this.”

He gives it back to me, and I feel myself blushing.

For some reason, I turn it over and show him the writing on the back—Acta Non Verba—and he reads it and laughs.