““Papa,” she whispers, as though Papa were a saint’s name, like the name he’d taken at Confirmation: Stephen, the church’s first martyr. “Get some rest, my love, you’ll feel better in the morning,” Libba says slowly, softly, as if she were calming a child. Her lips brush his forehead; her hand smooths his hair. Fresh air and sunshine, optimism, exercise, and rest: these are Libba’s prescriptions for health and well-being. At home he likes to tease her and Cecile while they touch their toes twent...y-five times in front of an open window. Sometimes Cecile flounces off, and Libba scolds him: “Can’t you stop, Howard? You always go too far.” He wants to promise her that when he comes home well and strong he will never tease either of his girls again; he will take everything they do and say seriously. If they are leaving, it must be night. “Don’t go,” he says, but they go anyway; everybody leaves except for Lewis’s daughter, the curious grandchild. When the door closes behind them, he lets out the breath it seems he’s been holding all day.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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