He stopped.
She picked up the book of matches she had set out for the candles. She put them in Frank’s hand.
“I meant it. If anyone is going to put fire on that cake it is you. I am not lighting a lie. I am going upstairs. I am locking the bedroom. You can sleep in the den. You can sleep in Dayton. You can sleep in the garage with your files. Do not knock.”
She went upstairs. The rose blouse disappeared around the landing.
Frank looked at Patrick.
Patrick looked at the photograph.
The boys in the picture looked like the Keane mouth. Patrick had grown up thinking that mouth was only his and his father’s. It was a family feature with extra addresses.
“I found school pictures,” Patrick said. “I found a Christmas from two years ago. You were wearing a sweater I don’t recognize. You told Mom you were in Toledo on a bid.”
Frank’s eyes were wet. He did not ask for pity. Pity would not have come.
“I will tell her everything tomorrow.”
“You will tell her because you got caught.”
“Yes.”
That yes was the first clean word of the night.
Patrick left the photograph on the table. He took his jacket. He did not hug his father. At the door he said, “If you call Christine tonight I will put the rest of the box on Mom’s bed.”
Frank did not ask how Patrick knew the name.
The flaps had been labeled. Frank had labeled them himself, like a man who wanted to find a memory quickly and never thought his son would be the one looking for lights.
Margaret did not sleep.