“Someone want to open the door, please?”

Scuffling noises. Desk chair wheels sliding against the floor. The lock popped open, but the door remained closed. Decker hesitated, went into the room.

Both boys were at their desks, books and papers spilling over the work surface. They mumbled a perfunctory hello. Decker returned the greeting with proper articulation, and studied his sons.

Sammy had grown tall this last year. At least five ten, which, according to Rina, had already made him a couple of inches taller than his late father. From the pictures Decker had seen of Yitzchak, the elder boy strongly resembled his dad-same long face, pointed chin, and sandy hair. His complexion was smooth and fair, freckles dabbling the bridge of his nose. His eyes were dark and quiet in their intelligence. He was also nearsighted like Yitzchak; Sam wore wire-rimmed spectacles. Jake had been the one to inherit Rina’s stunning baby blues, her 20/20 eyesight as well.

The boys were still in their school uniform-white shirt and navy slacks. The fringes of their prayer shawls-their tzitzit-were hanging past the hems of their untucked shirts. Jake wore a knitted yarmulke, its colors designed to look like a slice of watermelon. Sammy had on a black, leather kippah embossed with his Hebrew name in gold letters.

“How’s it going, boys?” Decker asked. “What’re you doing?”

Sammy put down his textbook. “A paper on the evolution of the American Ideal through the literature of Mark Twain. A real conversation stopper.” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, peered at Decker. “You look real tired, Dad. Maybe you should go eat something. I think Eema left you something in the oven.”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“No, I just thought…” Sammy frowned. “Jeez, try and be a nice guy around here. Do whatever you want.” His eyes went back to his notes. He picked up a highlighter and started underlining.

Well, that was spiffy, Deck. He shifted his weight, wondered what to do next. Jake came to his rescue. “You have a hard day, Dad?”

“Not too bad.”

“Felons took the day off?”

“Never.”

“But no famous people accused of murdering their wives.”

“No, not today.”

“Too bad,” Jake said. “You woulda looked cool on the witness stand.”

“Thank you, I’ll pass.”

Sammy said, “Jeez, Dad, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Adventure is for the young,” Decker said. “I’m just a stodgy old coot.”

“You’re not a coot,” Sammy said. “What is a coot anyway?”

“A simpleton,” Decker answered.

“Nah, you’re definitely not a coot.”

“As opposed to stodgy and old.”

“Well, better too stodgy than too cool.” Jake grinned. “You read that article in the paper? ’Bout the father who was arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor or something like that with a stripper?”

“What’s this?” Sammy’s interest was piqued.

Jake guffawed as he spoke. “A father hired a stripper to perform at his son’s twelfth birthday.”

Sam wrinkled up his nose. “That’s gross.” His smile was wide. “Kinda fun, I bet, but gross.”

Jake was doubled over. “One of the kids…told his mother. The mother complained and they arrested the guy…stupid jerk. The father said he was just trying to be a ‘cool dad.’”

Now Sam started chortling. “Now, why can’t you be a cool dad like that?”

“Your rabbaim would really love that,” Decker said.

“Yeah, they’d get mad,” Jake said, his eyes wet with tears. “But only because we didn’t invite them.”

Both boys were seized with laughter. Decker smiled and shook his head. “How you talk about your elders.”

“A very stodgy response.” Sam got up, kissed Decker on the cheek, and patted his shoulder. “You don’t have to hire a stripper for my birthday to be cool. But I wouldn’t mind a motorcycle.”

Decker gave Sam a paternal smile that said “over my dead body.” Sam shrugged. “No harm in asking.” He sat back down at his desk. “Gotta get back to work. Huck Finn is calling.”

Jake looked at his homework-a tractate of incomprehensible Talmud. “Shmueli, you learned Baba Kama, didn’t you?”

“More like a few parts. What don’t you understand?”

“I don’t understand any of it.”

“You gotta do better than that, Yonkie.”

Jake squinted at the mini-print text in an oversized tome of Talmud. “Something about if a guy’s tied up in a field…and there’s fire in the field…if it’s murder or not?”

“It would be murder according to American law,” Decker said.

Jake bypassed Decker’s bit of professional input. “I don’t know what Rav Yosef is talking about. The man is on another planet.”

“Why don’t you ask Rav Schulman?” Decker suggested.

Jake gave him an “are you a moron?” look. “Dad, I don’t think a big Rosh Yeshiva like him has a lot of free time for basic questions.” The boy sighed. “Besides, I don’t want to look stupid.” His voice turned desperate as he spoke to Sam. “You didn’t learn this at all?”

“Sounds vaguely familiar. Read me the passuk.”

The conversation between the two continued. Feeling superfluous, Decker said, “I think I am going to go eat.”

Both boys said a quick good-bye, returning their attentions to their respective academic plight.

Decker trudged back into the kitchen, Ginger still parked under his chair. She picked up her head and made a pathetic squeaking noise. Throwing her a piece of overcooked beef, he sat down and picked at his shriveled dinner.

A minute later, Rina walked in the room, her cheeks pink with warmth. She had tied her ebony hair into a long plait, and her lids were still half-closed as her eyes adjusted from the darkness of the nursery to the white glare of the kitchen’s fluorescent lighting. She squinted at Peter.

“Are you a husband or a hologram?” She bent down and kissed his lips. “I do believe you’re flesh and blood.”

“Funny.”

Her eyes stopped at his dinner plate. “Chinese doesn’t appear to keep well. Let me make you something fresh.”

“Nah, don’t bother.”

“How about salami and eggs?” Rina proposed. “Easy to make and guaranteed to drive your cholesterol off the scale.”

Decker pushed the dish away. “Actually, that sounds great. How’s my baby daughter? Does she still remember me?”

“With much fondness. You look very tired, Peter.”

“As always.”

Rina began to rub his neck. “You’re very tense, Atlas. Why don’t you pass the world onto someone else’s shoulders?”

“I tried. No one would take it.”

Rina said nothing, continued the massage.

“Feels good,” Decker said.

“Maybe you can juggle some paperwork, put me on the department payroll as your masseuse. Isn’t that how the politicians work it?”

“Too bad I’m not a good politician.” Decker blew out air. “I’m not a good bureaucrat, either. I’m also lousy at delegating tasks. As a result, I’m swamped with paperwork. My own doing, of course.”

“Would you like a rope for self-flagellation, or perhaps a cat-o’-nine-tails?”

Decker smiled. “Where do you know from a cat-o’-nine-tails?”

Rina hit his shoulder, went over to the refrigerator and took out eggs and a roll of salami. Decker looked at his wife as she sliced and diced. As tired as he was, damn, if she didn’t look good enough to devour. He still marveled at how the gods had smiled on him. Seven years ago since they had met…

“It’s not that I don’t have my virtues,” Decker said. “In fact, I have many.”

Rina pushed sizzling salami around the pan. “That’s the spirit.”

“I sometimes miss working in the field, that’s all. I miss working with Marge as a partner. I’ve teamed her with Oliver. They work well together. But I think there’s friction.”

“Big surprise. Marge is a straight shooter, Scott’s a slick old goat.”

“He’s in his forties. That’s not old.”

“But he is slick and he is a goat.”

“True.”

“Is Marge complaining?”

“No, she’s too much the professional to do that. I should talk to her, find out if she’s happy. Tell the truth, I don’t want to open up a can of worms. I figure if there are real problems, I’ll learn about them sooner or later.”