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and I don’t want anyone to see him.”
    He stalked back into the kitchen.
    â€œPhone’s for you.” The receiver smelled faintly of beer breath.
    â€œHello?” I asked.
    â€œWas that him?” Duncan whispered.
    â€œYeah,” I said.
    â€œThat’s amazing,” he said. I pressed my fingernail into the plastic crease that held the two halves of the phone receiver together. “Sorry to break the three-day etiquette thing, but I figured I knew you well enough to call when I wanted to.”
    â€œOh. Sure,” I said.
    â€œSo, I was thinking about having breakfast at the lunch counter near your house on Saturday, I guess that’s tomorrow, and I was thinking that would be a great time for us all to get together.”
    I looked over at my father, who was standing, hypnotized, in front of the television. He turned off all the lights; the colors from the screen bathed him in reds and blues. It made him look spooky.
    â€œTomorrow?” I asked.
    â€œYeah, how does that sound?”
    â€œDuncan, I don’t know how to say this but—”
    â€œWhat?” Duncan asked.
    â€œWell. It’s just that things have been topsy-turvy.”
    â€œDon’t overthink it,” he said. “You guys just meet me at the counter at eleven. That’s not too late, right?”
    Now I was in a bind. I could show up alone and Duncan would think I had been lying; I could stand him up and it would seem like I had been lying; or I could bring my father and hope that he behaved, well, fatherly.
    â€œHey,” I said to my father after Duncan hung up. “We have breakfast plans.” He glanced over his shoulder at me.
    â€œSays who?”
    â€œSays Duncan.” My father looked at me blankly. “My ex-boyfriend.”
    â€œYou had a boyfriend?” my father sneered.
    â€œWe’re meeting at the lunch counter at eleven tomorrow.”
    â€œFine with me,” he said, cracking his knuckles.
    I looked at the lines of my father’s body. Though not a tall man, he did have a sort of presence. His build didn’t indicate a delicate spine—no gorgeously stacked vertebrae. Instead he looked bolstered up by a large pole of metal.
    I thought about the way that blood goes through the body. The liquid seems to know exactly which way to go, as if every cell in the body has a tiny, thoughtful brain. I thought of my father’s blood, my father’s bones, the ligaments that held him upright like that, his arms crossed, his legs apart.
    How smart the body is. I closed my eyes and felt my own blood racing through my veins, making my hands and feet warm. I wished I could ask those tiny brains what to do.
    My father’s Chinese food melt lay half eaten on a plate on the coffee table. Some noodles had fallen to the floor, glued there by orange cheese. He’d already gone through two beers, the bottles wedged haphazardly between the couch and the wall. His socks, as usual, had been tossed like bait into the center of the room.
    In that moment, my impatience with him ebbed. I wasn’t filled with a strong, peaceful love or anything. I just felt resigned. And this felt like progress.
    â€œSo, eleven, then,” I said. “I guess we’ll just walk over there a little before, okay?”
    My father didn’t turn around. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss around here.” He changed the channel. Strange shadows came and went.
    â€œI guess I’m going to bed now,” I said. “Good night.”
    â€œMhmm,” went my father and then guffawed at the commercial.
    I felt heavy and empty; I lay in bed for a long time without sleeping. I would get up in the morning, clean the house, get dressed, have coffee so I was alert for the lunch counter encounter. Somewhere, in between thoughts, I fell asleep.
    I woke exhausted, a feeling of failure in my bones. I looked at the clock. Ten-thirty.
    â€œShit,” I said, throwing