You’ve made up your mind?” he asked. “Yes,” I said and went back to my plate of greasy chicken cacciatore, one of our ceremonial dinners, consumed like a smoldering peace pipe while our talk hinted at war. “And you know you’re on your own then? I’ll give you some money to get started, but that’s all.” “Yeah. That’s fine,” I said, chewing between words. We’d been wrangling over the future. He wanted me to work for him and thought his threat carried some weight: If you choose to go to school, you’ll have to move out and live on your own. He didn’t seem to realize that I wasn’t living with him. I insisted on school. After New Year’s, he drove me to the rundown house of a short gray-haired woman who had a room for rent. Her easy smile softened the heaviness in her face. Her daughter, petite and auburn, a year younger than I was, had worked at my father’s store over the summer. My window faced the highway, one pane broken, masking tape holding a cardboard patch.
