The way to Benny’s house was still hardwired in my brain. As a kid I’d walked the route at least four times a day. We’d stayed at each other’s houses most nights in the summer. We’d played football in the street. Benny even lived with us for a while back in junior high school when things first broke down badly in his house hold. I could have walked the path between our places in my sleep.

I passed through the fence, skirted the neighbor’s manicured yard, headed across the retirement village parking lot, and turned right on Sunset Drive. His house was down the block four driveways, just where I’d left it. It was a drab ranch-style number with fogged storm windows, rusted wind chimes hanging from the eaves, and damp cardboard boxes piled in the side yard. The fir trees in the back choked out any sunlight, and mold had crept into the seams in the vinyl siding. Everything seemed wet, decaying, though it was hard to put a finger on where the real problem lay. The house wasn’t really that much different from any of the neighbors’. But the fact the mess I remembered could remain so permanent was a kind of miracle.

I rang the bell, hoping for no answer, but Benny’s dad appeared right away. The curtain rustled, and then the door cracked open, and a warm, stale smell rolled out from indoors.

“Daryl,” he said, smiling. “How are you?”

“Hi Mr. Reger,” I said. We shook hands.

My mom was right, I could tell from a glance. Benny’s dad was a lot softer than he had been. Part of it was physical: his face was fleshier, and the line of his jaw had become indistinct. But mostly the change was in the eyes. The old glint of menace was gone, worn away by the years of unrelieved disappointment. All the noble ideals he’d entered fatherhood with had been proven wrong, and he’d at last come to the point where he no longer trusted his own instincts. I felt a little sorry for him, but in a way I imagined he was better off now. He’d become kinder and maybe even wiser in his long-term failure.

Men should spawn their children late in life, I thought. They did better as fathers that way. Only after they’d been beaten up by the world for a good, long time were they ready. So much pointless violence and unwarranted discipline could be avoided if they just waited.