“And not only the knives,” Frank said. “What about the time he lunched the car door?”

He was disparaging Dad, yet I smiled at a Littleford word I loved, like bollocky for naked, tonic for soda, hosey for choose, and What a pisser. Lunched meant “ruined,” but I hated hearing it applied to something Dad had done.

“Banged the door against a parking meter in a hurry to see a client.”

“Just a ding,” I said.

“Then, trying to smooth it out he pushed too hard on his electric buffer and fried the coil—lunched that, too.”

“Two lunches, what’s the big deal.”

“One lunch too many,” Frank said.

“Clam chowder,” the waitress said, sliding the cups toward us. “Haddock’s coming up.”

“Consider being a woman that age,” Frank said, as the waitress hurried away. He was nodding knowingly. “Probably fiftysomething and still hustling for tips. You know what waitresses make? Probably around a buck and change an hour.”

He said this sourly, so I said, “She’s about my age—and younger than you.”

Frank rapped on the table and said in an insistent hiss, “Cash is king.”

I was looking at his lips, how they trembled with these words, and expected him to say more. But there was no more. His statement was assertive, but his eyes looked unsure, as with the Dad story of debt, and the one about Dad using a kitchen knife as a screwdriver, and lunching the car door, and the obnoxious aside about the waitress’s pay.

Dumping oyster crackers into my chowder, I began eating. Watching me with damp lips, Frank stirred his chowder, dabbing at it with his spoon, but instead of eating any, he went on fiddling with it, like a chemist with a potion. His not eating disconcerted me and made it hard for me to swallow until, self-conscious, I gave up and pushed my half-eaten cup aside.

Frank was still poking at his untasted chowder. He said, “Took Dad and Mum to the Governor’s Ball. Mum just sat, dazzled. Dad goes up to Senator McBride and says, ‘I remember your father.’”

“Dad was very congenial. The only people he couldn’t stand were lazy aimless types. Remember his expression?”

Frank was staring at his chowder.

“He’s like a fart in a mitten—nice.”

But Frank said, “McBride’s father was convicted of bank fraud, mail fraud, and wire fraud. He served six years in a federal lockup.”

The waitress returned with two plates. “Still working on that?” she said to Frank, who’d left his spoon in his untasted chowder.

“Take it,” he said and nudged it with his knuckles.

The waitress set down the plates of haddock and clearing away the chowder cups said, “Let me know if you need anything else.”