Page 69 of Pity Play

She shakes her head. “Tell him the truth. But let him enjoy his breakfast first. He might as well get a last meal.”

“That’s pretty dramatic,” I laugh.

“So’s your dad.”

We sit quietly while I cut thick slices of french bread before soaking them in the egg mixture. After the oven is preheated, Iput the cooking sheet inside and set the timer for thirty minutes. Then I put bacon strips on the grill and make my dad’s famous maple butter.

When everything’s done, I assemble a tray and carry it into the living room. My dad’s sitting up in bed with a smile on his face. “I smell french toast.”

Laying the tray on his lap, I tell him, “I made it just the way you always did.”

He looks skeptical. “Why didn’t you try to make it fancy?”

Sitting down on the chair next to him, I tell him, “If I’ve learned anything it’s that you don’t mess with perfection. Your french toast has always been that.”

Picking up his fork, he cuts into his food and takes a bite. “It’s the cinnamon,” he says. “You’ve got to add a lot of cinnamon.”

I watch as he continues to enjoy his meal when my mom walks in. “I’m going to take a shower. Will you boys be okay without me?”

My dad looks panicked. “Don’t be gone long.”

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she runs up the stairs like she doesn’t want to be anywhere near us when I tell my dad what I know.

Once he’s finished eating, I ask, “You want more?” He shakes his head. “Do you need to use the bathroom?” Another head shake.

“You don’t need to stay,” my dad says. “I’ll be fine until your mom comes back.”

“That’s not how we’re going to do this, Dad.”

“Do what?”

“We’re going to sit here and work things out. It’s past time.”

He shifts around nervously. “What do we have to work out?”

“Your anger with me,” I practically yell at him. “I’d like to know why you’re so mad at me.”

“You know why,” he says petulantly.

“I know you wanted me to work with you at Pop’s, but you have to accept that’s not the kind of food I want to make.”

“Because you’re too good for it,” he hisses.

“No! Because I like making other stuff better. I like being creative.”

When he doesn’t respond, I tell him, “I know, Dad.”

“I don’t know what you think you know…” he starts to say, but the look on his face gives him away.

“I know about your childhood,” I say as calmly as I can manage given the continued discord. “I know about your parents. I know about Bobby.” Neither one of us says a peep after that. It’s so quiet I fancy I can hear my own heart beating. I finally ask, “Did you hear me?”

His head barely moves up and down.

“Is there some reason you never told me?” I demand.

He offers a tentative shrug with the shoulder of his good arm. “What’s to tell?”

“How about that my grandparents died and so did my uncle?” I cannot believe he’s trying to act like this was no big deal.

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