he had made battalions of toy soldiers, but in the last five years or so they had been quietly phased out - even now I'm not sure he was aware he was doing it), but like a good spray hitter, my dad went to all fields. During the week after Christmas there was a hiatus. The workshop would seem terribly empty, with only the sweet smell of sawdust to remind us that the toys had ever been there.
In that week he would sweep, clean, oil his machinery, and get ready for next year. Then, as the winter wore on through January and February, the toys and the seeming junk that would become parts of toys would begin appearing again - trains and joined wooden ballerinas with red spots of colour on their cheeks, a box of stuffing raked out of someone's old couch that would later end in a bear's belly (my father called every one of his bears Owen or Olive - I had worn out six Owen Bears between infancy and second grade, and Ellie had worn out a like number of Olive Bears), little snips of wire, buttons, and flat, disembodied eyes scattered across the worktable like something out of a pulp horror story. Last, the liquor-store boxes would appear, and the toys would again be packed into them.
In the last three years he had gotten three awards from the Salvation Army, but he kept them hidden away in a drawer, as if he was ashamed of them. I didn't understand it then and don't now - not completely - but I know it wasn't shame. My father had nothing to be ashamed of.
I worked my way down that evening after supper, clutching the bannister madly with one arm and using my other crutch like a ski-pole.
'Dennis,' he said, pleased but slightly apprehensive. 'You need any help?'
'No, I got it.'
He put his broom aside by a small yellow drift of shavings and watched to see if I was really going to make it. 'How about a push, then?'
'Ha-ha, very funny.'
I got down, semi-hopped over to the big easy chair my father keeps in the corner beside our old Motorola black-and-white, and sat down. Plonk.
'How you doing?' he asked.
'Pretty good.'
He brushed up a dustpanful of shavings, dumped them into his wastebarrel, sneezed, and brushed up some more. 'No pain?'
'No. Well . . . some.'
'You want to be careful of stairs. If your mother had seen what you just did -'
I grinned. 'She'd scream, yeah.'
'Where is your mother?'
'She and Ellie went over to the Rennekes'. Dina Renneke got a complete library of Shaun Cassidy albums for Christmas. Ellie is green.'
'I thought Shaun was out,' my father said.
'I think she's afraid fashion might be doubling back on her.'
Dad laughed. Then there was a companionable silence for a while, me sitting, him sweeping. I knew he'd get around to it, and presently he did.
'Leigh,' he said, 'used to go with Arnie, didn't she? '
'Yes,' I said.
He glanced at me, then down at his work again. I thought he would ask me if I thought that was wise, or maybe mention that one fellow stealing another fellow's girl was not the best way to promote friendship and accord. But he said neither of those things.
'We don't see much of Arnie anymore. Do you suppose he's ashamed of the mess he's in?'
I had the feeling that my father didn't believe that at all; that he was simply testing the wind.
'I don't know,' I said.
'I don't think he has much to worry about. With Darnell dead' - he tipped his dustpan into the barrel and the shavings slid in with a soft flump - 'I doubt if they'll even bother to prosecute.'
'No?'
'Not Arnie. Not on anything serious. He may be fined, and the judge will probably lecture him, but nobody wants to put an indelible black mark on the record of a nice young suburban white boy who is bound for college and a fruitful place in society.'
He shot me a sharp questioning look, and I shifted in the chair, suddenly uncomfortable.
'Yeah, I suppose.'
'Except he's not really like that anymore, is he, Dennis?'
'No. He's changed.'
'When was the last time you actually saw him?'
'Thanksgiving.'
Was he okay then?'
I shook my head slowly, suddenly feeling like crying and blurting it all out. I had felt that way once before and hadn't; I didn't this time, either, but for a different reason. I remembered what Leigh had said, about being nervous for her parents on Christmas Eve. And