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He scrubbed it with a dishtowel. “It won’t come off!”
   I squinted at him. “I don’t see anything.”
   “Ohhh.”
   “I better go check on that.” He put the towel down and put some Chap-Stick on and took a bite of my sandwich and said “Mmm” and went downstairs.
   I waited. Much longer than last time. I looked at the clock and tried to figure out how long my father was gone. The hands of the clock taunted me, dared me. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t figure out what they meant.
   He came back later, covered in dirt and sweat. His T-shirt was ripped in places. He hurried over to me and finished my sandwich in two great bites. “That tasted so nice,” he said.
   “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
   “I’ll make you another one. I promise.”
   “I believe you.”
   “I’ve just been thinking about that peanut butter and banana sandwich for awhile, is all. Since I made it for you.”
   “It’s not a problem.”
   “I know.” He smiled for a long time. His neck looked stiff. I felt awkward. Then his head sort of slumped off-kilter and the smile became a slot.
   “Your grandpa’s dead,” said the slot.
   “What happened?”
   “He’s dead. People die. It just takes time, sometimes.”
   “Ok.”
   He looked at the clock, then at me. “You need to learn to tell time.”
   “I can tell time.”
   “What time is it?”
   I studied the clock. “3 a.m.,” I said in a casual, uncaring voice.
   “Not quite,” said Dad. “It’s 12:30. In the p.m.”
   “Hm.”
   “It’s light out, for Chrissakes.” He pointed at the window.
   I looked out the window. “I know.”
   “You’re a big boy, goddamn it. Learn to tell the damn time.”
   “Ok.”
   “How old are you? You’re pretty old to not know how to tell time. You’re like in your thirties or something.”
   “I’m not that old.”
   “You’re old enough.”
   “Ok.”
   “Ok, ok. It’s settled.” He shrugged. He shrugged again, holding the shrug at its summit. He let his shoulders fall and shrugged once more. “By the way,” he said, “Dad got out of the freezer. He looked hurt. We wrestled around on the dirt floor. He told me I was a bad son. ‘Don’t ever tell your son he’s bad,’ I told him. He apologized and said he didn’t mean it. I said not to worry about it and we wrestled some more. Then I bashed his head in for awhile with a two-by-four until he stopped moving and squirming around. He lay there like the empty husk of a goddamned Junebug. I dug a hole with a garden hoe and nudged Dad into the hole with my foot and then I filled the hole back in. We need to get a gravestone. Write that down. They sell them at Wal-Mart for, like, really cheap. We also need to get the basement carpeted. Dirt floors are bullshit.”
   I stared at the crumbs on my plate.
   “Don’t be sore,” said my father. “He would’ve died eventually. I think he was dead. I think it was just a reflex or something.”
   “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
   “Jesus Christ! What the fuck is this? A fuckin’ fairy tale?” Dad looked at me expectantly.
   “What’s a fairy tale?” I said.
   “Jesus.” He took off his T-shirt, looked down at his belly and studied it. Grey, bristled patches of hair marked the flabby mass. “Jesus I’m getting fat. Jesus H Christ.”
   “Ohhh.”
   I said, “I think Grandpa’s alive again.”
   “I’ll be right back.” He poured two shots of tequila and we toasted to Good Times and slammed them. Then he went downstairs . . .
   Five days might have passed. Maybe five hours. Or five minutes.
   At some point I noticed Dad skulking through the kitchen. He had retrieved Grandpa and was carrying him in a Baby Björn. Grandpa’s thin, pale, liver-spotted limbs dangled lifelessly from the apparatus. He looked very clean, though: Dad must have