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socks poking through the blanket at the end. When he was asleep, she went into her room and took his Father’s Day present from her closet—making sure to keep the envelope of official documents separate from the box.
    A part of her wanted to open the envelope and get it over with, clear the air and not let the tension of a confession build up. Twenty years he had kept the truth from her. But now she knew, and had paperwork to prove it.
    When it first came to light, she felt betrayed—but was old enough to know that emotions take time to settle. A few weeks later she told Sophie.
    Then a little while later, when they were leaving a cinema on Avenue Junot, Sophie said she’d been thinking about it, and that Harvey’s father might feel ashamed once he found out Harvey knew.
    Harvey said that it must have seemed to him like the right thing to do at the time, and that it was too late for anything to change now. She was grown up; had her own life; and would never live at home again.
    W HEN J ASON OPENED his eyes, Harvey was on the arm of the couch.
    â€œHi, Dad,” she said, giving him the box.
    â€œWhat’s this, Harv?”
    â€œHappy Father’s Day.”
    â€œBut that’s not until next week.”
    â€œI was going to give it to you in the restaurant tonight, but I can’t wait.”
    The box fit squarely in his hands.
    â€œOpen it,” Harvey said.
    But when the ribbon was almost off, she began to cry.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Harvey? What’s up?”
    â€œI just hope you like it. I mean, I just hope you’re not freaked out.”
    â€œOh, I’ll love it. Even if it’s from Victoria’s Secret—though I can’t promise I’ll wear it . . .”
    â€œOh, Dad,” she said, and went to blow her nose.
    Harvey had completely taped the lid shut, so her father would have to rip the cardboard. She told him to make a hole in the top, then reach in and pick one thing out at a time. “There are a few pieces,” she told him. “One for each day of your visit.”
    When his arm stopped moving, Harvey clapped. “Do you have something?”
    â€œI think so. It’s round. I know that much.”
    â€œDon’t tell me—just pull it out.”
    When his arm appeared from the box, he was holding a baseball. “Woah! Thanks, Harvey. It’s really cool . . .”
    â€œNo, silly, don’t you remember?”
    Jason turned the baseball in his hands. “Remember what?”
    â€œWell,” Harvey said. “It’s kinda how you became my dad.”

XII
    A FEW WEEKS after Jason’s thirtieth birthday, Social Services wanted to schedule a visit. Jason told them he wasn’t interested and hung up. The woman called back the next day and told him what a shock it must be, but that she really needed to come over and chat with him in person.
    Jason didn’t know what she was talking about, and was afraid they wanted to cut his disability benefit. The third time she called, he told her he was still registered disabled, then read her the number on his parking permit. When the woman tried to speak, he hung up the phone.
    Wanda had worked for Social Services on Long Island since 1968 and would not be deterred. When she telephoned a couple of days later, Jason couldn’t believe it.
    â€œWhy can’t you just leave me alone?” he said. “I’m not bothering nobody.”
    He went on about how much he needed disability to supplement his income. Wanda listened. When Jason stopped talking, she mentioned how she thought they might have met at Wednesday’s service—but understood how painful it would have been for him to attend the funeral, seeing as he hadn’t spoken to his brother in such a long time.
    J ASON STAYED AWAKE all night, reading descriptions of the crash on the Newsday website.
    He found traffic reports from the evening it happened. It said that cars were backed up for miles.