Their beloved hostess was Mother, Falls’s best-informed young wife. She remembered the nuances of each man’s favorite drink (“Exactly three extra baby onions, please”).

“Don’t know how you keep so many standing liquor orders in that lovely head, Helen,” guys flirted with a woman whose IQ was 159.

Hooray! Here came Dan’s sporty Plymouth wagon, “cream” and electric-blue (white interior). Seeing me, he always honked, shave and a haircut. His sound piled into our drive, activating everything. Riding in Dan’s car, young lawyers, young doctors, joshing. Behind them, leather golf bags of saddle-shoe two-tones. Bags, lumpy as boys’ marble sacks grown huge, chucked atop each other like some shoulder-padded orgy—dumb, male, goodwill at rut.

Dan never swore, he rarely broke the speed limit. This husband and father and soon-to-be-caught queer served as deacon for that new brick Methodist church—the one near U.S. 43? beyond the carpet discount hut? yeah, that one.

Jocular, adored, and nearly too handsome, Dan was saved by not quite knowing it. That let you stare, let you draw maybe four inches closer than you’d risk with some dude aware of his exact market value. Dan, so visible to others, seemed half blinded by his own inviting innocence.

People rubbed shoulders with him—“for good luck,” they told themselves (if they noticed doing it at all). I noticed their shoulders touching his. At nine, I wanted mine there.

Hidden in my tree house above his parked wagon—I gazed down upon this man. My admiration felt almost patriotic: it weakened me, but for reasons idealistic.

The floor of my crow’s nest was one closet door, sacrificed in recent expansion; my father had nailed it up a sugar maple at roughly lighthouse height. Just one closet’s width held me aloft. It gave a good if sneaky overview, but offered no real living space. Suspended by rope, I kept a net sack full of ice-cold Cokes. A three-legged stool dangled. I pulled things closetward only when needed.

Today, Dan, seeing one stray line, fished a dollar bill from his wallet. Grinning, he tied it on, jerked three pulls. I knew to tug his green up into mine. I saluted over the ledge and, alone, sniffed dampish folding money. Its ink smelled more black than green. The smell hinted at wadded white bread, billfold’s rawhide and, not Jockey shorts but Dan’s second-day-wear boxers, possibly plaid. Eyes closed, I inhaled mainly Dan, worth hundreds.

Friendly below me, he stood no more than five foot six. And yet, like certain compact guys, he appeared a giant, shrunk—someone monumental rendered wittily portable, more concentratedly male for that. He was the most perfectly made, if shortest, of my father’s crowd. These men were immodest ex-soldiers of a won war. They acted as pleased with themselves as with their unearned trust funds.