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We're going to this lake up in Connecticut, where we get a sort of motel cottage.

It has a little hot plate for making coffee in the morning, but most of the rest of the time we eat out, which is neat.

We're sitting around the living room one evening, sorting stuff out, when the doorbell rings.

I go answer it, and Tom walks in.

He nods at me like he hardly sees me and comes into the living room.

He shakes hands like a wooden Indian.

His face looks shut up again, the way it did that day I left him in the filling station.

He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a letter.

I can see a post-office stamp in red ink with a pointing hand by the address.

He throws it down on Dad's table.

"I got my answer all right."

Pop looks at the letter and I see his foot start to twitch the way it does when he's about to blow.

But he looks at Tom, and instead of blowing he just says, "Your father left town? No forwarding address?"

"I guess so. He just left. Him and that woman he married." Tom's voice trails off and he walks over to the window.

We all sit quiet a minute.

Finally Pop says gently, "Well, don't waste too much breath on her. She's nothing to do with you."

Tom turns around angrily.

"She's no good. She loafs around and drinks all the time. She talked him into going."

"And he went."

There's another short silence, and Pop goes on. "Where was this you lived?"

"House. It was a pretty nice little house, too. Dark red with white trim, and enough of a yard to play a little ball, and I grew a few lettuces every spring. I even got one ear of corn once. We moved there when I was in second grade because my mom said it

Tom bites off the last word.

Suddenly I can see the picture pretty clear: the nice house, the father Tom always talked down and hoped would measure up.

Now it's like somebody has taken his whole childhood and crumpled it up like a wad of tissue paper and thrown it away.

Mom gets up and goes into the kitchen.

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