“And the glass?” I asked.
There was a pause.
“The glass is gone, honey. It was old mercury-backed glass. They don’t make it like that anymore. I can put in new glass. Good glass. But it won’t be the same.”
“It won’t be wavy,” I said.
Ezoic
“No. It’ll be clear.”
Ezoic
I sat with that for a while.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Put in the new glass.”
Abe kept it for almost two months. Dad called him every week to check on it. I think Abe started to dread the phone ringing.
Then, on a Sunday afternoon in December, I heard Dad’s truck in my driveway.
The rattle. The idle. The door slamming.
I looked out the front window, and there he was, wrestling something big and flat and wrapped in moving blankets out of the truck bed.
He carried it into the living room and set it down against the couch. Then he stepped back.
