“It’s all secrets, top to bottom,” I say, with despair at the magnitude of the task before me. “Everything that ever happened in our household should probably be a secret. Whenever I call Mary, she asks if I’m going to talk about the time Dad almost killed her because she accidentally turned off his computer with her foot. Whenever I call Paul, he asks me if I’m going to talk about how Dad used to take him into the backyard and throw baseballs at him.” “What?” Mom exclaims. “Why did he do that?” “To cure him of his fear of baseballs.” The sky has turned as black and bracing as coffee and the
