Henry had never held a match before. He held the stick between his thumb
and index finger like Bryce had done and scraped the match head against the
red sandpaper stuff on the box. The match flared in a plume. He stared at it as
it welled up and then settled into a small nub of flame.
“Nice one,” Bryce said. “Quick, before it goes out.”
Henry imitated his father lighting newspaper scraps for campfires. He held
the flame under the edge of the picture until it caught. He kept holding on
until its heat bit into the meat of his fingers. Then he dropped the match and
shook his hand in the air.
The boys stood shoulder-to-shoulder watching the picture burn. The fire ate
the paper in a steady orange wave that curled JM’s body into a black crescent
as it disappeared. The clover blossoms blackened and fell to the bottom of the
grill without fully burning, but the picture was reduced to charred flakes.
Bryce lifted the rack with one hand and picked up the larger pieces. Then
Henry helped him close the grill and they carried what was left of the picture
to the back of the yard to scatter under a row of evergreen hedges. They each
took turns consoling the other with pats on the back as the other wailed and
grieved.
On Tuesday night the following week, Henry and Lee arrived home from
school to find their father pulling a pizza out of the oven. He was still wearing
a tie and loafers, so the boys knew he would be leaving soon, probably for a
work dinner. He paused to hug them and gave Lee a peck on the top of his
head. Then he ushered them to stools at the kitchen island and transferred the
pizza to a cutting board on the counter in front of them. He cut the pizza with
a big butcher knife, because he hated cleaning the wheeled cutter. He spun
around to head upstairs and said over his shoulder, “Hank, grab the
parmesan cheese from the fridge and a juice box for you and your brother.”
He was up the stairs now and called out, “Lee, you better use a napkin.”