“Don’t touch it,” his dad shouted.

“I wasn’t going to. Alvin, I’ll get your supper.”

“He’ll get his own supper.”

His mom banged her hand down on the table. “I will get his supper, Redmond.”

She and his dad stared at each other in a complicated, adult way. Finally his dad said, more softly, almost apologetically, “Do please wash your hands before you touch anything you give to him, Judy.” And he walked out.

After she had made him some hot dogs, his mom went into the yard to collect the washing off the line. From the kitchen, very faintly, Alvin could hear his dad rehearsing his sermon. He wondered if his dad would take him on a home visit this weekend. Mrs. Allison was very ill. He loved these visits. He would never forget that amazing shriek from Mrs. Klotzburger when her mother died, that feeling of knowing you were in a house where someone had just breathed her last breath; or sneaking into the room where Mrs. Snyder’s husband, Moose, who had served him a malt just a few weeks before, lay paralyzed by a massive stroke. He had stared down into that man’s horrified, helpless eyes. Often his dad would have him wait in another room, especially if someone was ill or had something private to talk about. He would take his chance, then, to sneak around. He had stolen all kinds of things: a long prayer to overcome the craving for alcohol that had been pinned to the inside of Bill Heider’s closet; a little bag of nail clippings and hair from the Bancrofts’ place, which had to be from their youngest daughter, who had died of MS; the gold wedding ring of Mrs. Yost’s dead husband; a baking soda can full of kidney stones; a hidden photograph of a young man in the uniform of a Nazi storm trooper; an antique christening gown from the Andersons that had dozens of names sewn into it; old letters in German; women’s underwear, which he took out of laundry baskets. He had so much now that it was outgrowing the space beneath the loose boards at the back of his closet.

His mom returned, her arms full of clothes, and began to iron.

“What have you been up to?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Were you seeing Laura?”

“Told you I broke up with her.”

“Are you seeing anyone else?”

“Sort of.”

“Who is it?”

“Nora, sort of.”

“She’s big-boned, that girl; she’ll spread.”

“So what?”

“Why did you break up with Laura?”

“Getting too serious.”

She nodded. “You’ve got to be careful with these girls. They trap you.”

She continued ironing in silence. He could still faintly hear his dad, and said softly, “Annie’s telling lies about me.”

She put the iron up. “What lies?”

“She doesn’t like me. She’s telling people horrible things about me.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She’s jealous, I think. Because of Nora.”

“Does she like you?”

He shrugged. “She’s been acting funny.”

“What’s she saying?”