"Planner," he said. "Good. The town always needed somebody who could read a map without wanting to own it."
"He doesn't own anything," Ruth said. "He rents a room and eats cereal. He's all right."
"Are you all right," Arthur said.
The question was so unarmed she answered it.
"No."
"Good," he said. "If you were all right tonight I'd worry you'd already decided what I meant."
Caleb cut a piece of chicken he did not need. "Friday with Shah," he said. "I told Ruth."
Arthur chewed. "Shah asks me the date and the president and whether I can draw a clock. I can draw a clock. The president changes too often to be a fair test. I'll go. Both of you can come if you can keep your mouths off my answers. They're mine. Even the wrong ones. Especially the wrong ones. A wrong answer is still a man speaking."
After the dishes, which Ruth washed because Caleb had cooked and because she needed a task with an end, Arthur went to the den and fell asleep in his chair with the television talking softly to nobody. Caleb muted it. He stood over his father for a moment with the remote in his hand and the look of a person checking that breath is still a reliable habit. Ruth saw him from the doorway and did not step in. There are vigils that cannot bear a second witness without becoming a performance. She went to the kitchen and dried the forks.