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Show 3-3 in, carrying a loaf of Grandmother's bread. He was not in uniform as he was yesterday. He wore his old clothes that had hung in the basement, forgotten when Mother had packed everything else away. And they did hang on him. Only his arms, below his rolled shirt, seemed the same, still round and strong. Fidelio padded after him, happy with his morning walk. "Good morning, love." Father bent to hug me. "Why aren't you at school?" "Miss Evans gave me two days off. To see you." I glanced at Mother where she leaned against the cabinet. She looked at me and nodded. "Finish up, then let's go before it gets too hot. How was the walk, Larry? Everything the same?" "Yes and no." Father rubbed his hands through his hair. "It's all the same, I guess. I've been away forever, it seems. It all seems so quiet. No crowds, no noise." "After New York City, I can see why." Mother rinsed the dishes and put the bread in the bread box. "Let's head downtown. Maybe then you'll feel at home. You want to drive? Or do you trust me?" Father grinned at her. "You drive. I've forgotten how." They left the kitchen chatting, laughing. I sat for a moment, a wave of warmth coming over me. Maybe it was the morning sun streaming through the mock orange tree by the porch. I think it was the sound of their voices, the look of my father in his old clothes, his grin. For the moment, all was the same, my father at home, my mother happy, the war over. I gave Fidelio a brisk face and ear rub and then ran to follow my parents. We stayed up late that night, singing, playing canasta, eating the chocolates we had bought at Blair's. The living room was warm and light, the windows standing open to the breezeway, a cool air drifting the light curtains about the piano. |