“No.”
The denial came too quickly.
The Carl I remembered had been a shy young man who lived with his grandfather and repaired bicycles behind their house.
The man I married laughed easily and argued enthusiastically about books.
Mr. Baron sat in the chair across from me.
“Carl lost both parents when he was seven,” he said. “Arthur raised him.”
I remembered Arthur’s rough hands and gentle voice.
I remembered bringing him soup when he had the flu because my mother believed no one should eat alone while sick.
Carl had stood behind the workshop door, watching.
Then other memories began returning.
Arthur’s handmade birdhouses.
The smell of cut wood.
A Saturday afternoon when an impatient customer confronted Carl about a bicycle.
Carl tried to explain, but his stutter grew worse.
The man became angry, pulled the bicycle from his hands, and stormed away.
Carl disappeared behind the workshop before anyone could stop him.
