Vegas, I think. I say the name silently, suck on it like a piece of candy. It’s freezing in the living room, which can’t be good for him, but I don’t want to get into it this morning, so I tell him again I’m going to get cleaned up and head out. I tell him I’m going to return his videos, and I ask if he needs anything from the store besides blank tapes.

“You know what I need?” he says. “Gluten. I want to bake this raisin wheat loaf, and I need some gluten if I’m going to do it right. You think you can find me some gluten?”

I don’t even know what gluten is, but I tell him sure, I’ll find it.

“I’ve got to get ready for Wilson,” he says, pushing a hand through his papers.

His Cadillac never moves from the driveway. It’s a ’96 Seville Luxury Sedan, less than a year old, and it was a gift from the Ragazzinos-at-large. That it wasn’t given to him on his birthday or anywhere near Christmas made the car a kind of lifetime achievement award in my father’s eyes. It did, at least, seem to imply ultimate forgiveness for his fuckup back in 1959. But Utica’s not a big place, and my father’s doctor was recommended by one of his uncles, so chances are that word spread about the shape he was in and the Ragazzinos felt sorry for him. Sorry in the Ragazzino family has the same result as congratulations. There’s a lot of gift-giving. Envelopes of money, for instance, get handed over in funeral homes just like they do at wedding receptions. The news from Dr. Cox wasn’t good, so the Ragazzinos gave my father a Cadillac he was happy to accept, though he’s been in no real shape to drive himself anywhere for the past six months. The Seville is metallic gray, and it’s a fine machine. Bone leather interior, alloy wheels, North-Star system, and a V-8 engine with 275 horsepower. Not that I’ve had much use for a car in the past two decades other than local travel, but my Celica’s an ’84. It’s the color of orange chalk, except for one panel on the driver’s side, which is more of a root beer shade. The muffler’s dangling from a coat hanger and the odometer rolled over to zero a thousand miles ago.