I had a small wrapped thing in my hand that Bevan had given me at breakfast.
Roland put his hand on my shoulder.
“Come outside a minute.”
And he took the little parcel out of my hand and set it down on the bonnet of the car parked at the end of our drive.
A new one. Actually new, with the plastic still on the seats.
“Happy birthday, son.”
Mum did not say anything. Bevan was at the porch with both hands in his pockets.
Roland held the keys out on his palm and waited for what he thought he had bought.
And then he turned about a quarter toward the porch, and said, loudly enough for all twenty-five of them:
“Now he knows who his real father is.”
Bevan looked at the floor.
Nobody said one word.
I had fourteen years of things I could have said standing right behind my teeth. I could have listed the bleachers and the chemistry and the account. I could have finished him in front of my mother’s whole family.
