my mother and father, my mom served coffee, and we talked. Elaine talked the most - chattering about her school and asking Leigh all sorts of questions about ours. At first I was annoyed, and then I was grateful. Both my parents are the soul of middle-class politeness (if my mom was being led to the electric chair and bumped into the chaplain, she would excuse herself), and I felt pretty clearly that they liked Leigh, but it was also obvious - to me, at least - that they were puzzled and a little uncomfortable, wondering where Arnie fitted into all this.
Which was what Leigh and I were wondering ourselves, I guess. Finally they did what parents usually do when they're puzzled in such situations - they dismissed it as kid business and went about their own business. Dad excused himself first, saying that his workshop in the basement was in its usual post-Christmas shambles and he ought to start doing something about it. Mom said she wanted to do some writing.
Ellie looked at me solemnly and said, 'Dennis, did Jesus have a dog?'
I cracked up and so did Ellie, Leigh sat watching us laugh, smiling politely the way outsiders do when it's a family joke.
'Split, Ellie,' I said.
'What'll you do if I won't?' she asked, but it was only routine brattiness; she was already getting up.
'Make you wash my underwear,' I said.
'The hell you will!' Ellie declared grandly, and left the room.
'My little sister,' I said.
Leigh was smiling. 'She's great.'
'If you had to live with her full-time you might change your mind. Let's see what you've got.'
Leigh put one of the Xerox copies on the glass coffee table where the pieces of my casts had been yesterday.
It was the re-registration of a used car, 1958 Plymouth sedan (4-door), red and white. It was dated November 1, 1978, and signed Arnold Cunningham. His father had co-signed for him:
SIGNATURE OF OWNER
SIGNARURE OF PARENT OR GUARDIAN (IF OWNER IS UNDER 18)
'What does that look like to you?' I asked.
'One of the signatures on one of the squares you showed me,' she said. 'Which one?'
'It's the one he signed just after I got crunched in Ridge Rock,' I said. 'It's the way his signature always looked. Now let's see the other one.'
She put it down beside the first. This was a registration slip for a new car, 1958 Plymouth sedan (4-door), red and white. It was dated November 1, 1957 - I felt a nasty jolt at that exact similarity, and one look at Leigh's face told me she had seen it too.
'Look at the signature,' she said quietly.
I did.
SIGNATURE OF OWNER
SIGNATURE OF PARENT OR GUARDIAN (IF OWNER IS UNDER 18). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
This was the handwriting Arnie had used on Thanksgiving evening, you didn't have to be a genius or a handwriting expert to see that. The names were different, but the writing was exactly the same.
Leigh reached for my hands, and I took hers.
What my father did in his basement workshop was make toys. I suppose that might sound a little weird to you, but it's his hobby, Or maybe something more than a hobby - I think there might have been a time in his life when he had to make a difficult choice between going to college and going out on his own to become a toymaker. If that's true, then I guess he chose the safe way. Sometimes I think I see it in his eyes, like an old ghost not quite laid to rest, but that is probably only my imagination, which used to be a lot less active than it is now.
Ellie and I were the chief ben eficiaries, but Arnie had also found some of my father's toys under various Christmas trees and beside various birthday cakes, as had Ellie's closest childhood friend Aimee Carruthers (long since moved to Nevada and now referred to in the doleful tones reserved for those who have died young and senselessly) and many other chums.
Now my dad gave most of what he made to the Salvation Army 400 Fund, and before Christmas the basement always reminded me of Santa's workshop - until just before Christmas it would be filled with neat white cardboard cartons containing wooden trains, little tool-chests., Erector-set clocks that really kept time, stuffed animals, a small puppet theatre or two. His main interest was in wooden toys (up until the Vietnam war