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presentation, and I thought you could help me go through the photo albums and pick some out.”
    “ Oh. Yeah, I can come over after lunch.”
    “ You aren’t too busy with your packing?”
    “ I can make some time. See you in a little while, Mom.”
    “ Goodbye, Paul.”
    I get dressed and get in the car, stopping at Taco Bell on the way over. When I get to my mom ’s house in Pleasanton, she’s got photo albums spread out all over the kitchen table.
    My father is receiving a posthumous award from some literary society. I hadn’t heard of the group, but I guess they’re sort of a big deal. Ever since my father killed himself, my mother has dedicated herself to being the conservator of his memory. They fought like feral cats when he was alive, but the day he shot himself it was like a switch got flipped in her head. Suddenly he became a saint and she would brook no mention of any of his faults, of which there were many. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d lobbied this group for the award. Not that he didn’t deserve it; by all accounts my father was a genius. His first novel, A Dying Breed , won just about every award except the Pulitzer. His second novel, Retribution , won that too. His third novel was, according to most critics, bloated and derivative, but by then his reputation was firmly established. Rather than risk slipping further on his fourth, he shot himself between the eyes. Nobody says it in so many words, but I get the impression that his suicide actually helped secure his reputation as a genius. It would certainly explain the comparisons to Hemingway, which obviously didn’t arise from similarities in their prose. Clarity and directness weren’t Dad’s strong suits; frankly I think he used cryptic language to camouflage the fact that he didn’t really have much to say. But then, he’s the one with all the awards, so what the hell do I know? I’m comforted by the fact that if there is a heaven, Hemingway is probably up there beating the shit out of my dad right now.
    I spend two hours going through the albums. It’s almost comical how many photos there are of my dad and my older brother, Seth. I suppose that’s typical; everybody takes more pictures of their first kid, but my parents’ obvious obsession with Seth is almost creepy. If Seth’s future biographers ever want to know the exact date Seth was potty-trained, they’ll be in luck. And it’s pretty much inevitable that somebody is going to want to write that biography; Seth is only two years older than me and he’s already known around the world as the inventor of a form of cochlear implant that “learns” from its environment, providing better quality sound to its recipient based on feedback over time. Currently he’s working on a device that is supposed to repair damage to the auditory nerve, providing almost normal levels of hearing to individuals who are effectively deaf. Seth is a pompous asshole, but there are kids who can hear because of him. In ten years I’ll probably be going through these same albums looking for pictures of him to use when he’s awarded the Nobel Prize in medicine. Hopefully posthumously. I kid.
    My mother vetoes all my choices of photos, which is par for the course. I try not to take it personally; I like to think that she puts me through these exercises because she likes spending time with me rather than because she wants to rub my nose in my father ’s and brother’s successes. I try to make pleasant conversation, but not many appropriate topics are available. I have no interest in hearing more of my mother’s opinions on my marital situation, and like I said, she has no interest in my kids. My job bores both of us, and in any case I’m on the verge of getting fired. I’m tempted to announce that I almost stepped in front of a train yesterday, but I can’t see that going well either. I can almost hear my mom’s disapproving response: “How do you almost step in front of a train?”
    So I make