called after us. "Don't you kids worry about a thing."
At lunch Brian and I sat together in the cafeteria. I was pretending to
help him with his homework so that no one would ask us why we weren't
eating when Dad appeared in the doorway, carrying a big grocery bag. I
saw him scanning the room, looking for us. "My young 'uns forgot to
take their lunch to school today," he announced to the teacher on
cafeteria duty as he walked toward us. He set the bag on the table in front
of Brian and me and took out a loaf of bread, a whole package of
bologna, a jar of mayonnaise, a half-gallon jug of orange juice, two
apples, a jar of pickles, and two candy bars.
"Have I ever let you down?" he asked Brian and me and then turned and
walked away.
In a voice so low that Dad didn't hear him, Brian said. "Yes."
"Dad has to start carrying his weight," Lori said as she stared into the
empty refrigerator.
"He does!" I said. "He brings in money from odd jobs."
"He spends more than he earns on booze," Brian said. He was whittling,
the shavings falling to the floor right outside the kitchen where we were
standing. Brian had taken to carrying a pocketknife with him at all times,
and he often whittled pieces of scrap wood when he was working
something out in his head.
"It's not all for booze," I said. "Most of it's for research on cyanide
leaching."
"Dad doesn't need to do research on leaching," Brian said. "He's an