After I’d wiped up melting snow and glass bits for a few minutes, I stared at the knife. When I was growing up back in New Jersey, mischief-making boys would crouch by the side of the road and throw these kinds of weapons at passing cars. One time, a rock-inside-snow missile hit our old Buick as we were coming home from church. The rear-seat passenger window had shattered, and I was showered with glass. At ten years of age, I’d been traumatized.
I kicked myself out of my reverie and scrambled over to a wall of tall cabinets, where a moment of rummaging yielded a broom and dustpan. The guests were edging toward the mess, and I had to sweep up the window glass before someone got cut on it. Hermie and Smithfield were now arguing with each over whether they should call the sheriff’s departmen
