I said.
“I don’t remember you, but my mother showed me your photograph.”
“I’m Charlie,” I said again, “and I remember you from when you were a little boy.”
“My father’s dead,” he said.
“Sad to say, yes—your father’s dead.”
“You saw him die,” he said.
“I saw him fall,” I said.
“That’s accurate,” Gabe said, “and I accept the correction. But it’s not useful information.”
“Your father was my closest friend,” I said.
“I know that already,” Gabe said. “Would you be interested in seeing his ashes?”
Trish leaned toward Gabe, but without touching him. “Not yet, sweetheart,” she said. “Be patient, all right?” She turned to us. “Lorenzo—Mister Falzetti—gave the ashes to me—brought them here in a box one day, said he’d decided they’d mean more to me than to him, and I didn’t have the heart—or strength—to argue. With Lorenzo, it’s always easiest to let him have his way.”
“Like father, like son?” I asked.
“Who knows?” Trish said. “Who cares really?”
“Did you bring us any presents?” Gabe asked.
“Oh Gabe!” Trish scolded, but softly. “I’ve asked you not to…”
“It’s okay,” Seana said. “Yes, we brought gifts for you and for your sister.”
“Perhaps we can accept the gifts now and you can see the ashes later,” Gabe said.
“Sounds like a plan,” Seana said.
“But before we get too far into gift-giving,” Trish said, “how about a loving hug for the grieving ex-wife?”
“Of course,” I said. “Sorry I didn’t…”
I moved toward Trish, but Seana was there first, and when she embraced Trish, Trish collapsed as if a strut inside her had snapped.
“I’m sorry too,” Trish said, and she started crying, her body convulsing in small spasms. “In fact, I’m very sorry. I’m damned sorry. I’m one sorry, sorry girl. Sorry… sorry…”
Seana pulled Trish closer to her, even while Anna, thumb in mouth, was pillowed between them.
After a while, Trish caught her breath and stepped away. “Now it’s your turn, Charlie,” she said, and she came to me and rested her head against my chest.
“You are plump,” I said. “Plump and warm.”
“You used to say you preferred women who were ample.”
“Still true.”
“I do well on amplitude tests,” she said.
“No one better,” I said, and a moment later: “And hey—I am sorry about Nick.”
“He never saw fatherhood as a vocation, I suppose,” she said. “I mean, he was a real bastard—mean as shit when he was wasted—and a lousy father even when he tried in his half-assed way. Still, he was all the father Gabe had.”
“And Anna? I mean, what about Anna’s father, if I can ask?”
“Several of the usual small-town suspects,” Trish answered. She wiped at her nose. “I cooked supper for us. You’re in for a treat.”
“That’s correct,” Gabe said. “My mother and I made several of our best recipes—baked stuffed haddock, string beans with mushrooms and onions, candied yams, and another potato dish, I forget its name.”
“Dauphinoise,” Trish said.
“That’s correct,” Gabe said. “And for dessert, we’re having a blueberry crumble, which you can have with or without ice cream.”
“I fussed,” Trish said proudly. “I like to fuss. I was happy fussing—getting ready for your visit—and Gabe was a big help.”
“That’s correct,” Gabe said. “My mother calls me her sous-chef.”
“And sometimes he’s my Sioux chief,” Trish said.
“Ha ha,” Gabe said, his voice flat. “That’s very funny. So now can we have our gifts?”
“Probably,” Seana said.
“Probably?” Gabe cocked his head to the side. “You’re teasing me, right?”
“I’m teasing you,” Seana said.
Gabe smiled for the first time. “I like it when people tease me,” he said, “although they’re not always successful at it the way you just were.”
Seana took a stuffed animal from the canvas bag she was carrying—a brightly colored parrot into which you could slide your hand to make it into a puppet—and handed it to Anna, and then she gave Gabe the model airplane kit we’d bought for him: a Glenn Martin Bomber.
“Thank you,” he said. “My grandfather makes excellent model ships, but I prefer airplanes, especially those from World War One. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” Seana said. “And I consulted with Charlie here. He’s an expert at gift-giving.”
Gabe eyed me. “I know!” he exclaimed. “My mother told you about my hobby, and she told you I’d been hoping to get a Glenn Martin.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“After supper, I can show you the models I’ve already made. I have Fokkers, Aircos, SPADs, Junkers, Vickers, Halberstadts, and a Sopwith that’s a triplane with three wings, which is quite rare. My grandfather helps me build the planes sometimes, and he’s quite patient with me. Even though I’m the smartest student in my class, I also have a large temper for a boy my age. I can be difficult at times.”
“Self-knowledge is a wonderful thing,” Seana said.
“At school, I’m required to have my own teacher with me all day, in addition to the regular teacher for the other students,” he explained to Seana. “It’s called special education.”
“Figures,” Seana said.
“Figures?”
“Special education for a special guy, and you’re pretty special, aren’t you?”
“I certainly hope so,” Gabe said.
After we helped Trish put the children to bed—Gabe showed us his model airplane collection and then read a story
