368
"Who? Why? Is something wrong?"
"Of course not. Did you hear anybody?"
"No."
"You're sure?"
"Yes. Isn't Mom here?"
L.
WOIWODE
"Of course she's here! What's the matter with you?"
"Is something wrong out at the lake?"
"What's the matter with you, anyway? Where do you get the
idea that something always has to
be
wrong?" And 'then
his
father
got up and left the table.
That week, the week of Thanksgiving, Owen's father had no
classes at the university and stayed at home. His mother was in bed,
sick with a bad cold, his father said, and "strep throat, strep throat."
His father lifted his chin and made raking motions with his fingers
down the front of his neck. That was practically all his father said
to relieve the silence. The rest of the time he wandered around in a
bathrobe,
his
cheeks turning dark with the beard he didn't bother
to shave, and performed such menial tasks as cleaning up and wash–
ing the dishes, fixing Owen's meals and waiting on his wife. When
Owen's vacation began, two days later, there was such an unsettled
feeling in the house that he spent most of the time in his bedroom
upstairs. Often, he would feel eyes on
him
and look up from
his
game of solitaire or the book he was reading and see
his
father
standing in the doorway in
his
bathrobe. "What?" Owen would
ask,
but
his
father, whose eyes were glazed with thought, would merely
shake his head and walk off. And
if
Owen went downstairs, his fa–
ther followed
him
around the house, trailing in his wake like a
younger sibling, silent, and after Owen had returned to his bedroom
it would only
be
a
~ matter
of minutes before he felt eyes on him
again, and knew
his
father was in the doorway. Once, in response
to Owen's question,
his
father said, "Who am I?"
"What?"
"Who am I?"
"You."
"Who's that?"
"My Dad."
"Good."
On Thanksgiving Day, Owen came down for dinner, primed
