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and pressed one half in Billy’s hand. “For the road,” he said.

    They didn’t go far. Just to the garage.
    The first thing Papa did was to turn off the radio. Billy noticed that the cello with arms had been pushed against the wall, partially draped with a blanket, abandoned.
    “All right,” said Papa, clapping his hands. “I wouldn’t call it a breakthrough yet, but I’ve been working hard today. Because of you.”
    Laid out on the table in Papa’s work area were several wooden cigar boxes. Each one had various items placed inside it. The inside of one box resembled a landscape, another a city. One looked like a funny face with mismatched watch dial eyes, a doorknob nose, and a black plastic comb mustache. The boxes were in differing stages of completion.
    “I’ve just begun,” explained Papa. “At this point, I’m just moving things around, trying things out. Nothing’s close to being finished.”
    “They’re dioramas!” said Billy. He grinned. “I helped you—I gave you the idea.”
    “You did,” said Papa, smiling. “And I thank you. I’m calling them assemblages, but that’s just a fancy way of saying they’re dioramas.”
    Billy felt taller somehow. Bigger. Shiny, even. He’d never helped Papa in such an important way before.
    Papa had all kinds of things on hand to use for his assemblages: bolts, nails, wire, marbles, foreign coins, twigs, fabric scraps, beads, shards of glass, seashells, stones, old black-and-white photographs, maps. These things were on the table—in jars, little heaps, and stacks—surrounding the boxes.

    “Check out this one,” said Papa. He directed Billy’s attention to the box at the corner of his worktable.
    It was a face—a realistic-looking one—with green sea-glass eyes, coils of wire for hair, and an intricate arrangement of small pieces of wood for skin.
    “I’m not done with it yet,” said Papa.
    Suddenly, the face came into clear focus. In wonder, Billy said, “It’s me!”
    “Yes, it is,” said Papa. “If it turns out, I might do one of Mama and Sal, too.”
    “You’re so good,” said Billy. “When I’m older, I hope I’m good at something.”
    “You will be,” said Papa. “And you’re already good at many things.”
    Billy waited to hear what the things were, but Papa just smiled at him before making some adjustments on one of the boxes.
    They shared a pleasant, companionable silence. Then Papa ruffled Billy’s hair. Billy could feel Papa’s fingers lingering, searching, like when he checked for ticks after they went hiking or camping.
    “Hey, mister,” Papa said, “you are lump free.”
    Strangely, it was as if Papa’s words were coming through his fingers and from all around, pressing against Billy. And Billy felt the full force of Papa’s attention.
    Billy hadn’t thought about his lump in a while. He raised his hand and felt for himself. It was true. His lump was gone. A fact. “Let’s tell everyone,” he said.
    “Let’s,” said Papa. “And after that, you can help me make dinner.”
    “Can we have macaroni and cheese?”
    “I think that could be arranged,” said Papa. With his arms stretched wide, he guided Billy out of the garage. “You’re a good boy. A good lump-free boy.”
    “Thank you, Papa, yes I am.”
    “Hey, what about Dad ? I thought I was Dad?”
    “Oh—” said Billy. “I forgot.” He paused. He puckered his lips, then bit his lower one, released it. “I might forget sometimes,” he admitted.
    “That’s okay,” said Papa. “You might forget what to call me, but I know you know who I am,” he joked.
    Billy grabbed Papa’s sleeve. He stared up at him. “Don’t worry, Dad,” he said. “I’ll never forget you.”
    “I’m not worried,” said Papa. “Not one little bit.”
    And they went into the house, side by side, to spread their good news.

1
    Billy Miller hated his sister. At least, right now he did. Sal was crying—wailing, really—so loudly that Billy had gone to his