“It was bound to happen. How long could I expect you to run around like a trapped rat before you tried to break out? You know, I originally wanted more kids. Four was the number I decided on. Two girls, two boys, so nobody ever had to be lonely. Even when things got bad at the end there, I kept making my case to your mother. Can’t blame her for saying no, I guess. Having more kids is no way to save a marriage. I suppose at that point I wasn’t trying to save the marriage, I was trying to save you. I’ve had it both ways, you know? I had a brother. And then I was an only child. I know the difference between the two. And I kind of feel like I robbed you of that. Having someone for when I can’t be there. Which is often. I know that.”

“Dad.” I knew no other words beyond that.

“With a brother? Hell, there’d be messes worse than that kitchen. You can’t have two boys and not have things break. Catch fire. Explode, even.” He turned his glasses to the clouds and laughed. “You wouldn’t believe the trouble Jack and I used to get into. You honestly wouldn’t believe it. They had these chemistry sets marketed to kids back then, rockets that you ignited with fire. They should have been sold with tourniquets and directions to the nearest hospital. There weren’t bicycle helmets back then. Or locks on doors.” His smile died out. “I don’t know. Maybe there should’ve been.”

“I’ll clean it up.” This promise came out with startling ferocity. I would clean it up, cleaner than it’d ever been, and I’d ride my bike to the store, get replacement dishes, a new mop, some cleaning products, and a new ceiling fan, which I’d buy on layaway along with a serviceman to install it, and when Dad got back from mowing, soppy with perspiration and dotted with grass shrapnel, he’d light up with renewed energy when he saw what a success his son could be when he set his mind to it.

Dad brushed it all away with a shrug.

“Already cleaned,” he said. “Don’t give it another thought. It’s festival week. I want you to enjoy yourself. I ran into Mrs. Leach at the hardware store this morning. Why didn’t you tell me you’d gotten the lead in the play? I mean, I know why. Late-night rehearsals. You were afraid I wouldn’t let you do it. Well, I am letting you do it. I’m not going to lie, it makes me nervous. Practically sliced my hand off in the trimmer this morning thinking about it. But that’s my hand. Yours is yours.”