For a moment, I couldn’t answer.
“Yes,” I said. “He did.”
The woman gave a shaky laugh.
“He never told us.”
“He didn’t tell me about you either.”
That silenced both of us.
Her name was Ruth. She had been fifteen when Dad arrived at the foster home.
She began asking about him carefully.
“Did he still cheat at cards?”
“Yes.”
“Did he still hate papaya?”
Apparently, he’d lied to me about liking it.
“Did he whistle when he was nervous?”
I looked at Mom.
She nodded.
“Every time.”
Ruth laughed.
These weren’t stories about some secret version of my father.
They were simply Dad.
“Why did you keep his chair?” I asked.
“Because it was Gilbert’s.”
“For fifty years?”
“People used it.”
She sounded surprised by the question.
“Kids sat in it. Somebody broke its leg once. We fixed it. But whenever anyone wanted to throw it out, Mom said, ‘No. That’s Gilbert’s chair.’”
