“Can I get you gentlemen a drink?” It was the waitress, an older woman with a weary smile, and a pad in her hand. “And what else can I do you for?”

“Tomato juice, please,” I said. “No ice.”

Clasping his hands again, Frank said, “Water.”

“Still or sparkling?”

“Tap water.”

“Shall I tell you today’s specials?”

“Pass,” Frank said in a snippy voice.

Seeing the woman wince, I said, “I know what I’m going to have. A cup of clam chowder and the grilled haddock.”

“Good choice. Mashed potato or salad?”

“Mashed potato.”

“And you, sir?”

Frank said, “Same here.”

The waitress repeated the order, reading from her pad. She then said, “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

Frank leaned toward me. “Imagine, Dad an insurance stiff grandly calling himself an importer.”

“It was his hobby. Some of the stuff he sold was made overseas. China, for sure. Like a lot of my drilling equipment.”

Leaning closer, as though to someone on a witness stand, Frank said, “Think how hard it is to be who you say you are.”

Leaving me with this enigmatic thought, he sat back, looking pleased with himself.

The waitress set down my tomato juice and Frank’s glass of water and said, “Food’s on the way.”

Frank tapped the side of the glass with one finger, as though to test its temperature. “What was I saying?”

“Mum paid back every penny.” I did not correct him. I was enjoying this skewed version of the story.

And there was more, the valiant widow repaying her late husband’s debt, using her own money. And Frank taking time off from his law practice to help her. As he talked I noted the variations in the story, Dad now portrayed as selfish and neglectful, concealing his profits, squirreling money away, defaulting on his debts, undermining the family.

At a certain point in this conversation, my interest waned, I found this painful to hear, as though listening to it I was being disloyal to Dad. I said, “What about the things Dad did that had nothing to do with money? His sacrifices. His great heart. How he never complained. He loved Mum. He adored her. That counts for a lot.”

Frank stared at me as I spoke, expressionless, his slanted lips narrowed, unimpressed, or else not listening. He was a relaxed and expansive talker, but he was an impatient and agitated listener, and his blank stare was an example of his impatience.

He said, “Every time I pick up a screwdriver I think of how Dad used the tip of a knife as a screwdriver. So all the knives in our cutlery drawer had a sort of twist at the tip, a weird little kink, where it was used to remove a screw.”

“I do that sometimes.” Frank knew that, he’d often mocked me for it. Some of those damaged knives might have been my doing.