"Yes," he said. "I would have come."
He did not know if it was true. He hoped it was. He would turn it over in his mind for months afterward, on long drives, in the shower, lying awake at three in the morning, and he would never be entirely sure. But he said it, and his son believed him, and he decided that night on the edge of the bed that he would spend whatever time it took to make it true backward, to become a man of whom it would have been true.
Caleb leaned against him. Marcus put his arm around him, low, below the bruises.
"Can I sleep in your bed tonight?" his son said.
"Ask your mom. She’s going to be there. I’ve got to drive Grandma to Aunt Bernice’s."
"Will you be back?"
"I’ll be back."
"Promise?"