Wade did not take the bait. “Sometimes.”
I put the letter down.
Jonah had moved to the PERSONAL shelf. He pulled out a plastic grocery bag containing two shaving razors, a bottle of aftershave, and Randall’s old reading glasses.
He froze with the glasses in his hand.
Those ridiculous glasses.
Randall bought them at a drugstore after insisting for six months that restaurant menus had suddenly begun using smaller fonts as a conspiracy against older people. The frames were tortoiseshell and slightly crooked because he had once sat on them at a baseball game.
Jonah folded them carefully.
“He used these?” he asked.
“Toward the end,” Wade said.
Jonah put them back too quickly. “I didn’t ask you.”
Wade’s expression hardened. “You want to blame somebody, blame me. But don’t ask questions and then punish me for answering.”
Jonah turned.
For an instant I saw Randall in him so clearly it was almost unbearable. The same shoulders squared too far forward. The same habit of lifting his chin when anger was the only thing holding something softer in place.
