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I waited, half-embarrassed for him. After he stopped, I nodded yes, and he smiled his big, dimpled smile and sat down in the chair opposite. Sal poured me a ginger ale and opened Cokes for herself and him. “A ciggy, John?” Sal offered him her package of Matinees.
    â€œMakes me cough, Sal.” He trained his big, dark eyes on me. Did I mention his eyes? They were slightly exophthalmic, the term for bug-eyed that I had found in one of Morley’s medical textbooks. I’d added it to my list of words like “execrate,” which sounded thrillingly like defecate, and “vainglorious,” an adjective even the grown-ups misused, not realizing it meant boastful.
    He turned to Sal, popping his fingers against his palms. “Mary saw my sign protesting my innocence. I bet you didn’t know mental patients can’t get their cases reviewed, eh?”
    I shook my head, taking in his clean, shapely hands. The moons at the base of his cuticles were shiny with clear polish, as if he’d painted his nails like a woman.
    â€œYou and everybody else. But I aim to change that. Well, I guess we’re acquainted now, aren’t we?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking, Mr. Pilkie.”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking, Mr. Pilkie! What a fancy way to put it! You have manners, just like your old man.”
    Flattered, I tried not to let it show.
    â€œOkey-dokey, Mary. I’ll behave.” He pointed at my history book. “What have you got there?”
    â€œI’m writing a composition about my great-grandfather, who was an oilman in Petrolia.”
    He examined the tintype of Mac Vidal thoughtfully. “Now isn’t that something? You look just like him. Something determined about the mouth.” He popped his fingers again and added, “My great-granddaddy was in the oil business down there. So you and I have a connection to Petrolia. How do you like that?”
    â€œMaybe your ancestor worked on my great-grandfather’s rigs.”
    â€œMaybe.” He sounded doubtful. “You aren’t fooling me now, are you?”
    â€œI’m telling the truth, Mr. Pilkie. Cross my heart and point to heaven, my great-grandfather’s boat ran into an oil slick on the Great Lakes. The slick was caused by an oil gusher near Petrolia and he followed the oil to its source and struck it rich.”
    â€œThat’s quite a story,” he replied.
    I showed him the page from my grandmother’s book that quoted the
Sarnia Observer Advertiser
from August 5, 1858. He whistled as he read it out: “‘We lately heard of the discovery of a bituminous spring in the Township of Enniskillen … that will continue an almost inexhaustible supply of wealth, yielding at the lowest … not less than one thousand dollars per day of clear profit …’ Imagine, Sal! A thousand bucks a day!” he said.
    â€œThat was in the old days,” Sal replied. “They don’t make a dime now.”
    â€œSal’s right. My grandmother says the price of oil hasn’t gone up in years,” I added.
    He asked how my great-grandfather stored his oil, and I showed him a picture of the clay storage tanks like the ones my ancestor used. I skated over the mechanics of “puddling” the tank walls because I considered myself more like Morley, without a practical bone in my body.
    â€œDid you know your father saved my life when I was a kid?” he asked after I finished. “I got an appendix attack at the Western Light. It was blowing up a storm so we couldn’t leave the island.”
    I looked at Sal. I wasn’t supposed to know about Morley helping John’s father take out John’s appendix.
    â€œOr do you want me to tell you another story?”
    â€œWell, we sure don’t want to hear about your wife and baby girl,” Sal said.
    John’s face closed up. He drummed his fingers angrily on the kitchen table, his dark angel’s eyes