That was where we went after the dinner dishes were done, Jonathan and Jeff and I, to a bar called Sammy’s, named in honor of Samuel Langhorne, who was about as much a Sammy as Thomas Jefferson was a Tommy or John Adams a Jack. The place was one of those dark English-pub imitations, with cheap, mass-produced stained-glass windows and a big dark wood bar with heraldic nonsense fixed to its front. It was full of town kids home for Thanksgiving break and the community college kids, who wished they were. Jeff had to wade through a sea of glad hands and big smiles. One girl ran her hand up his khaki leg from knee to thigh and said, “Come over to see me.” “Who was that?” Jonathan asked. “A very happy woman,” said Jeff. “Name of Jennifer.” “They’re all Jennifers,” I said. “When our mothers were young, they were all Kathys and Pattys. In ten years they’ll all be Ashleys and Taras.” “Aren’t you tough!” said Jeff. “My middle name.” “Yeah, you put on a good show, El.
