Thirty-Two
“YOU STILL HEAR ME, Dad?”
I adjust the volume a little. “Hear you just fine, Gladys.”
“He’s late,” Helen says in my ear.
“Gus was never on time for anything,” I say. “He was born two weeks late, 12 pounds 13 ounces.”
“Ow!” Gladys exclaims.
“Look,” Helen interjects, “I say give him another five minutes, then bag it.”
“Trust me,” I say. “He’ll be here. He wants to be here.”
There’s a pause. “What do you mean, Tom?” Helen says slowly in her best cop voice.
“I told him I have something he wants,” I say, “and if he wants it, he’d better talk to me.”
“What the hell, Tom!” I wince as Helen screams at me through the earpiece. “Why’d you do that?!”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Gladys says.
“What!” Helen exclaims.
“Gladys, I told you . . .” I say.
“I can’t have you two fighting,” Glady
