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pointedly at his father’s neat gray ankles.
    â€œYes. Thank you for your concern.” His father didn’t like to admit that he couldn’t find things.
    â€œBlock out your time this evening so you can do your homework and still fit me in.” His father’s voice was excessively polite. “It’s time we talked about your future, your attitude. Where you’re going.”
    â€œI’m going to school,” he said, smiling to show he wasn’t being a smartass.
    â€œYou know what I mean, John.” His father fiddled with the dial on the TV, looking for his favorite newscaster. With any luck at all there’d be a shot of the president taking off for the weekend, and his father could shoot off his mouth and let off some steam talking to the president, telling him all he ever did was wave to the peasants on his way to his weekend place. There was nothing like the sight of the president, taking off or staying in the capital, to distract his old man. It was magic.
    â€œJust pull yourself together so we can discuss your plans this evening.”
    Why couldn’t he say “tonight” like other guy’s fathers?
    â€œI don’t have any plans, Dad. I can fit you in.” Behind his father’s back, he made a face. His mother widened her eyes at him and said, “Get a move on or you’ll miss your bus.” He knew she’d like it if he kissed her good-bye. But he didn’t feel like it. He let the door slam behind him and, as the damp February air filled his lungs, he lifted a finger to the sky to show what his father could do.
    Head down, bucking the wind, he trudged to the bus stop. If he timed it right, he and the bus would round the turn together. He enjoyed racing alongside while the kids inside peered out, cheering him on, shouting so the bus driver, who was his friend, would order them all to pipe down. Sometimes, when he raced like that and listened to the sounds of cheering, he pretended he was in the Olympics, on his way to a gold medal. Or imagined himself Jimmy Connors. Or even Chris Evert Lloyd. When it came to winning, he was totally asexual.
    This morning, no matter how he dragged his feet, scraping them over the frozen ground, no matter how much he slowed down, he couldn’t win. He had to wait even after he reached the bus stop, stamping his feet, watching his breath rise in the cold air.
    â€œSo. You’re an early bird today, eh?” Gus, the driver, swung open the door to let him in.
    â€œMore like the worm.” He lurched down the aisle to the back of the bus, hoping for a seat next to someone he didn’t know. In his bones rested the knowledge of a bad day coming. Keith calling, his father lining him up for yet another session in which he did all the talking: If he didn’t shape up, he’d wind up in a bread line. Or selling apples, à la the Great Depression. If he didn’t pull up his socks and get serious, he could forget college. A good college, anyway. He had heard it all a hundred times.
    If he’d been able to race the bus, maybe he could’ve worked off the sweat. As it was, a heavy weight lay on his chest.
    His mother’s hot cereal?
    Perhaps. More likely, the weight of impending doom.

3
    â€œMr. Hollander, sir? Doctor will see you now.” The nurse was plain, sallow-skinned, her small eyes made smaller by blue eye shadow applied with a heavy hand. As Henry followed her down the ball to the doctor’s office, he could see her shoulder blades through her uniform. She flattened herself against the office door to allow him room to pass and he noticed a birthmark on her neck, dipping down into her white collar. A birthmark the color of eggplant; aubergine, unsightly. He wondered why it hadn’t been removed when she was a child. There was no excuse for leaving something that disfiguring on a girl baby. Or a boy baby, either, for that matter.
    The doctor stood as he entered. He must