Chapter 1 - The Seventh Place Setting
My father finally lifted his eyes from the baseball gloves, but he still didn't look at Owen.
He looked at me, as if I could tell him which version of the afternoon would allow him to save face.
Scott cleared his throat and said we were making a scene.
I said the scene had started when a grown man arranged six presents in front of seven children.
Owen slipped his chair backward, the legs scraping across Scott's patio.
He asked me one more time if we could leave, and this time I said yes immediately.
My mother, Linda, hurried around the table carrying a paper plate covered in foil.
She tried to hand it to Owen, telling him he should at least take a slice of birthday cake.
He stared at the plate as though it were something he had to earn.
"I'm okay, Grandma."
She looked devastated, which made me angrier than I wanted to admit.
Scott followed us through the kitchen, still talking about discipline and loyalty.
"You don't get to walk out every time you hear something you don't like," he told Owen.
I stepped between them without touching either one.
"He isn't walking out on baseball, Scott. He's walking out of your backyard."
Scott laughed once, a dry, incredulous sound.
"You always rescue him from consequences."
"The consequence of seeing his mother?"
My brother opened his mouth, then shut it.
The silence lasted until I heard my father's heavy footsteps behind us.
Dad held up his hand, not in apology, but in command.
"Aaron, we're going to finish this conversation."
"Not in front of the kids."
"He's old enough to understand what he did."
"He understood perfectly. The rest of us are catching up."
Dad's face hardened, and for a moment I saw the Little League coach who used to send me running laps for questioning his calls.
Then Owen reached for the doorknob.
"Grandpa, I didn't ask for a glove."
Dad stopped breathing for what seemed like a full second.
"I just didn't think you'd want everybody watching me not get one."
We left before my father could answer.
In the car Owen fastened his seat belt, set both hands on his knees, and stared through the windshield.
I drove three streets before he asked the question I had been dreading.
"Did Grandpa know about Mom before today?"
"I don't know."
"Do you think he'd still have done it if he knew?"
I couldn't give my son the reassurance I wanted to give him.
Instead I told him I was going to find out.
My phone rang before we reached the interstate.
It was Scott, and his first message contained just six words.
"You owe Dad an apology tonight."
The next message was a photograph of the birthday table.
May you like
Someone had already moved Owen's empty chair away.
