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Show rfoodworth/132 A and get in the car. And off we'd go. He'd try to talk to us man to man. You know. How we were holding up. Did we understand. Shit Like that. But the only answer he'd listen to was, 'Yeah, sure Dad. tie understand. Yes. You were absolutely right.' And then he'd settle back, and quiz us about what Mom was doing. The thing that was so peculiar is that Mom never asked about him. Like she didn't give a shit if he'd dropped off the face of the earth. He'd want to know if she had bought a new dress, and she didn't even care if he was alive or not. She begins stroking his arm, up and down, feeling the friction, the slight tug of the shirt material against his arm, the hair on his arm, the softness of his skin. Gary nods, and the bartender sets two more beers in front of them. "Then he began his whole routine of going on outings with us. Which was really pathetic, because he always chose something that he hated, or that he was really bad at. He took us to a baseball game, and I don't think he paid attention to one instant of the game. Always looking around, asking us if we wanted another hot dog, or some more Coke. And then sailing, when he barely knew the front of the boat from the back. After a while, my brother and I would just make up excuses why we couldn't go. Too much homework. Softball practice. A test tomorrow. That kind of thing. He'd ask us why we didn't get our homework done on Friday or Saturday, so that we could have time together. We'd just say that that was our only time to see our friends." He is quiet for a moment, watching the movement of her stroking his arm. Then he covers her hand with his own, and beging stroking her arm. She stops, eyes down. Veiled, ~she thinks to herself, and watches her arms as he rubs them. Her shirt is sleeveless, and the downey hairs follow the motion of his har,*. p*,£Y*firi\fl nnri fr <l° He rubs higher, so his fingers |