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In the last three years he had gotten three awards from the Salvation Army, but he kept them hidden away in a drawer, as if he was ashamed of them. I didn't understand it then and don't now - not completely - but I know it wasn't shame. My father had nothing to be ashamed of.

I worked my way down that evening after supper, clutching the bannister madly with one arm and using my other crutch like a ski-pole.

'Dennis,' he said, pleased but slightly apprehensive. 'You need any help?'

'No, I got it.'

He put his broom aside by a small yellow drift of shavings and watched to see if I was really going to make it. 'How about a push, then?'

'Ha-ha, very funny.'

I got down, semi-hopped over to the big easy chair my father keeps in the corner beside our old Motorola black-and-white, and sat down. Plonk.

'How you doing?' he asked.

'Pretty good.'

He brushed up a dustpanful of shavings, dumped them into his wastebarrel, sneezed, and brushed up some more. 'No pain?'

'No. Well some.'

'You want to be careful of stairs. If your mother had seen what you just did -'

I grinned. 'She'd scream, yeah.'

'Where is your mother?'

'She and Ellie went over to the Rennekes'. Dina Renneke got a complete library of Shaun Cassidy albums for Christmas. Ellie is green.'

'I thought Shaun was out,' my father said.

'I think she's afraid fashion might be doubling back on her.'

Dad laughed. Then there was a companionable silence for a while, me sitting, him sweeping. I knew he'd get around to it, and presently he did.

'Leigh,' he said, 'used to go with Arnie, didn't she? '

'Yes,' I said.

He glanced at me, then down at his work again. I thought he would ask me if I thought that was wise, or maybe mention that one fellow stealing another fellow's girl was not the best way to promote friendship and accord. But he said neither of those things.

'We don't see much of Arnie anymore. Do you suppose he's ashamed of the mess he's in?'

I had the feeling that my father didn't believe that at all; that he was simply testing the wind.

'I don't know,' I said.

'I don't think he has much to worry about. With Darnell dead' - he tipped his dustpan into the barrel and the shavings slid in with a soft flump - 'I doubt if they'll even bother to prosecute.'

'No?'

'Not Arnie. Not on anything serious. He may be fined, and the judge will probably lecture him, but nobody wants to put an indelible black mark on the record of a nice young suburban white boy who is bound for college and a fruitful place in society.'

He shot me a sharp questioning look, and I shifted in the chair, suddenly uncomfortable.

'Yeah, I suppose.'

'Except he's not really like that anymore, is he, Dennis?'

'No. He's changed.'

'When was the last time you actually saw him?'

'Thanksgiving.'

Was he okay then?'

I shook my head slowly, suddenly feeling like crying and blurting it all out. I had felt that way once before and hadn't; I didn't this time, either, but for a different reason. I remembered what Leigh had said, about being nervous for her parents on Christmas Eve. And it seemed to me now that the fewer the people who knew about our suspicions, the safer for them.

'What's wrong with him?'

'I don't know.'

'Does Leigh?'

'No. Not for sure. We have some suspicions.'

'Do you want to talk about them?'

'Yes. In a way I do. But I think it would be better if I didn't.'

'All right,' he said. 'For now.'

He swept the floor. The sound of the hard bristles on the concrete was almost hypnotic.

'And maybe you had better talk to Arnie before too much longer.'

'Yeah. I was thinking about that.' But it wasn't an interview I looked forward to.

There was another period of silence. Dad finished sweeping and then glanced around. 'Looks pretty good, huh?'

'Great, Dad.'

He smiled a little sadly and lit a Winston. Since his heart attack he had given the butts up almost completely, but kept a pack around, and every now and then he'd have one - usually when he felt under stress. 'Bullshit.