“Maybe you should go without me,” he suggested wearily, but I wasn’t about to let him get away with not coming.

“Enough. You can at least give him the respect of showing up at the ceremony.”

He heaved himself up in bed and stared at the floor.

“You’re right,” he said. He washed his face and put on his shoes, but persisted in his silent rebellion by refusing to wear anything elegant, settling for a simple gray T-shirt.

“I don’t get it. Aren’t you proud of him?” I asked as we walked out of the house. “Why are you being so oppositional?”

“It’s not that,” he said with a sigh. “Sometimes it’s just a bit too much, this whole thing.”

My phone rang. An unregistered number. “What’s up, bro?” asked a voice I couldn’t recognize. I put him on speakerphone.

“I’m fine, just, remind me, who is this?”

“Man, I forgot you’re such a pothead. It’s Waxman,” he said, and Dad grimaced.

“Listen, there’s a small hitch.”

“What kind of hitch?” I asked. Dad leaned into the phone.

“Look, there’s no good way to say this, but it looks like Neuerman … I mean, your grandpa, has Parkinson’s.”

Waxman said that when Grandpa had been admitted to the hospital, they ran a few routine tests. Four days ago some troubling results came back, so they brought him in again. He said Grandpa wasn’t being very cooperative. “I’m really no expert, but it doesn’t sound good.” He explained that in hindsight, the doctors thought the neck pain wasn’t brought on by Gourevitch falling on him, but were symptoms of the disease. Said it also explained the instances when Grandpa’s hands started trembling. That even he had noticed it himself, but thought it was just nerves.

Dad’s expression didn’t betray the slightest shred of emotion; it remained with the same frozen gaze fixed on the road, and I didn’t even know how to begin processing the news. Waxman further explained that according to the doctor he probably still had at least two good years ahead of him, but that we would need to meet with him to receive all the information.

“We could find him a new position in the unit for a few months,” he said, “maybe a quartermaster clerk or something. We’ll give him the option of an honorable discharge, but I assume you understand he can’t keep serving as a combat soldier in the platoon.”

“How did Grandpa react to this?” I asked, trying to imagine the look on his face when they gave him the news, but couldn’t.

Waxman didn’t reply.

“Well, how did he react?”