Her father was then forty-seven years old. He wore a tweed jacket of greenish brown, the pockets dragged out of shape by little books and cigarette packs, cotton hankies and keys. His hair was shiny on his pink scalp. The chewed plastic of his glasses stuck out over one ear and the back of his neck was a deep, fat red. This was the summer her mother had her breast cut off for a reason that could never be named.
