Of course, his father, boneless monkeyman, was with them and called out, “Here he comes, James Dean. ‘You’re a tearing me apart!’” He made as if he were trying to rip off his white apron in imitation of the movie scene. Then he took hold of Frank by the back of his neck with exaggerated affection. “Where you been, movie star? Seeing your girl?”

“Who’s this girl?” Bennet asked.

“There’s no girl,” Frank said, unable to meet Bennet’s probing ever-disappointed eyes. Six two and broad, with hair that looked like a helmet made from the cool metals of copper and tin, Bennet’s jaw was a graveyard shovel, his mouth a lipless slit. How could all those mistresses he was rumored to have, Frank wondered, bear to kiss him?

“Esta. You know Esta?” his dad said.

Even though Frank felt uncomfortable, it relieved him a little to be here among these men who seemed outside time. Creatures more or less of the same kind. No women here.

“That’s the daughter them city slickers come out here.” Otto scratched the razor burn on his neck. “Loaned him some traps last week and when he brings ’em back he’s pale as the pope’s pecker and he says, ‘Otto, them raccoons and groundhogs sure don’t want to die.’” Otto laughed. “Told him, ain’t nothing want to die.”

“How old are you now, Frank?” Bennet asked.

“Eighteen.”

Siggy, who was resting a Coke on his belly, said, “You worried about getting called up?”

“Might just join up.”

“You joining nothing,” his dad said.

Siggy sighed. “One them twins got a star by ’is name couple days ago. See it? Wasisname—Ronald. What’s the other one?”

“Donald,” Goldwin said.

“Nice boys,” Siggy said. “They should send Donald home. No one should have to give up two sons.”

Otto tugged Bennet’s shirtsleeve. “Ain’t you glad you got no sons, Mr. B?”

In response, Bennet’s face somehow became even more implacable. It had always struck Frank as fitting that Bennet, who was so male and spent near all his time with men, had fathered four daughters.

“Sure, war’s not all bad,” Finn cut in, his Irish accent undiminished despite the twenty-five years he had spent in America. “Went to a lovely town one time. Over in your part of the world, Sal. Name escapes me, but the waiter there he brought me a dish—fish, it was. Nice too. And I say, How’d you cook this? And you know what he says? He says it’s not cooked. Raw fish, it was. What’s the name of this place, now? Had a big tower in it with a bell. Met a fine girl there called Diletta. That’s Italian for delight. Imagine that now you call someone Delight. Sure, Diletta sounds better. Everything does in that language. Shit is merda: ‘Give me a double scoop of that merda with a cherry on top.’” Finn stopped. This was often the way with him: a great disconnected rush, and then he would look around like a dog that had farted in the house. He knew it was wrong but didn’t know why.