46
Connell’s uncle Phil was in from Toronto. After dinner, Connell’s father began telling a story everyone had heard before about the summer he’d spent in college doing service work in Peru. The punch line involved the drastic height differential between himself and the priest in charge.
“There I am, all six feet of me,” he said, “and—”
“You’re not six feet,” Connell interrupted. “You always say you’re six feet. You’re like five eleven.”
“I’m six feet tall,” his father said with dignity.
“You wish you were six feet.” Connell had just measured himself, and he knew he was five ten and that his father wasn’t much taller. He went over and squared up against his father back-to-back. Then he made him take his shoes off. He took off his own Doc Martens.
“Son, I’m six feet.”
“Maybe you were once,” he said. “Maybe you’re shrinking.”
“I’m not old enough to shrink.”
“Maybe you are,” he said. “Maybe you’re losing it early, Dad. It would explain a lot.”
His father gave him a quick, deadly stare. “Enough,” he said, and turned away. “Do you need a drink?” he said to Uncle Phil.
“I’ll come with you,” Uncle Phil said.
Connell followed them into the kitchen. “If you’re six feet,” he said, “then prove it.”
“Let it go, son,” his uncle said.
“Here,” Connell said. “The door’s right here. We’ll mark you off against it. Like we did for me in the old house.”
His father looked annoyed, but he stood against the door. Connell made him take his shoes off again.
“Five foot ten and three-quarters,” he pronounced as he made a deep score in the side of the door with the pencil.
? ? ?
Connell was emptying the dishwasher. He pulled up the handle of a knife whose blade had been broken off near the base. It was nothing but a stump.
“This has seen its last day,” he said, holding it up to the light. “I’m getting rid of it.”
He threw it out; his father walked over and quietly fished it from the garbage.
“That knife is guaranteed for a lifetime,” his mother said with matter-of-fact triumph. “That’s a high-quality knife.”
“I can tell,” Connell said archly.
His father rubbed the handle between his fingers like a worry stone.
“I’ve been meaning to call that company for a while now,” his mother said.
Connell was incredulous. “Can we just get rid of it? You’re not going to call the company. What could you possibly do with that knife, Dad? Seriously.” He strained for a tone he would take with a father he could spar with, a tone he knew would hurt him.
“You’d be surprised,” his father said. “I use this knife to stir my sauces.”
“I am too going to call that company,” his mother said. “They’ll honor their guarantee.”
“We have plenty of other knives. Why do we need this one?”
“Your father bought that knife when we got married. He spent a lot of money on it at the time. Is that enough of an answer for you?”
She looked on the verge of tears. He knew he shouldn’t have anything more to say.
“Doesn’t mean you have to keep it forever,” he said.