“Luke,” Ralph yells into the living room, “come get the damned dog. He’s out of control.” Ralph doesn’t like Danny Boy, never has. Danny Boy doesn’t lose any sleep over it, though. He doesn’t think much of Ralph, either. And, as far as Danny Boy is concerned, he’s the one with seniority around here. Ralph is the newcomer.

Luke strolls into the kitchen, laughing, but doesn’t bother to restrain the dog. There’s no reason to, of course, except in Ralph’s head. Instead, Luke stoops to give me a kiss. At six feet three, he’s got a solid nine inches on me. He gets his height from his father but most of his other traits—fair skin, dark blue eyes, and black hair—from me. He trades arm punches with Harry. Hard ones.

“Who the hell is he?” Ralph points at Harry, but asks me the question, as if he’s inquiring about a figure in a wax museum.

“Ralph Ellis,” I say, “meet Harry Madigan.”

Harry extends a hand, but Ralph hesitates. After a moment, he shakes it gingerly, as if Harry might detonate on contact.

“Ralph,” Harry says, “how are you?”

Ralph doesn’t answer. Instead he looks Harry up and down, assessing him, and then turns back to me. “What the hell is going on with the truck?”

Here we go. “It needs work,” I tell him, hoping to short-circuit this discussion.

“I know that.” Ralph raises his hands to the heavens, the way he always does when he wants to be sure I know he’s at the end of his rope.

“Dad,” Luke says, “give it a rest. It’s not that big a deal.”

But for Ralph, Luke’s pickup truck is a big deal, even when it’s operational. Ralph purchases nothing but the best. He can. He doesn’t believe in used anything. Why would he? He’s been mad at Luke, and ballistic at me, since we bought a used truck last Christmas. Funny, though, he hasn’t offered to replace it.

“What’s this about Luke working at the goddamned garage?” he demands.

I had been hoping Luke wouldn’t mention that particular plan to his father. One look at Luke tells me he’s sorry he did. “Rematch?” he asks Harry. Luke is feeling the heat and he wants to get out of the kitchen. I don’t blame him. I’d like to get out of here too.

“You’re a glutton for punishment, kiddo,” Harry says, looking a little relieved himself. The two of them escape into the living room, Danny Boy right behind them, to set up the chessboard.

“He’s working at the garage?” Ralph repeats the word as if it’s profane.

“For a day,” I tell him. “He’ll help Peter with the truck on Monday and Peter will cut him some slack on the bill.”

Peter Schaeffer is our mechanic and he’s the only reason my Thunderbird is still on the road. I’m hoping he’ll perform similar miracles on Luke’s truck. Peter and Luke have always gotten along well—they’re both car fanatics. And for some reason, that fact has always irritated Ralph.

“Not just for a day,” he says. “They can’t get it all done in one day. Luke’s working there Tuesday too. Monday and Tuesday. Skipping classes both days.”

Now that’s a portion of the plan I hadn’t heard yet.

“So my son’s not a college student,” Ralph continues. “He’s a grease monkey.”

I can see into the living room over Ralph’s shoulder. Luke jumps up from the couch when he hears his father’s words and dashes to the center of the room. He bends in half and scoots around in circles, alternately scratching his head and armpits, then dragging his knuckles on the floor. Harry falls back against the cushions and stomps his boots on the braided rug. He’s having a laughing fit, not making a sound.

It takes every shred of willpower I can muster to keep a straight face. “A grease monkey,” I repeat. I look back at Ralph with what I hope is a somber expression. Any trace of amusement would send him into a spin. “I guess that’s what he is.”

Ralph shakes his head, disgusted, and points at the kitchen door. “Come outside for a minute,” he says. “I want to talk to you.”

I consider telling him I’m not going anywhere. He can say whatever he has to say right here in the kitchen. But it’s not worth the scene it would cause. “Let me grab a sweater,” I tell him instead, and I head for the living room closet.

Harry and my son the monkey have moved the coffee table into the center of the room. They’re sitting on the floor on opposite sides of it, arranging the chessboard between them. Harry looks up as I pass. “You okay?” he asks in a low voice.

“I’m swell,” I tell him. “But if Fay Wray isn’t back in ten minutes, send King Kong.”

* * *

Ralph and I are having the talk I knew we would have—the one about Luke’s academic endeavors. Ralph, of course, would characterize the discussion differently. He’d say it’s about the lack thereof. We’ve had this debate before. We’ll have it again. And Luke will be ready to retire from the workforce long before we reach an agreement.

Luke has always been a good student—in certain subjects. His grades are consistently strong in English, literature, and philosophy; they’re not so hot in math. He has a knack for foreign languages, but his chemistry teacher described him as downright frightening in the lab. Luke has never been troubled by his weak spots, even telling his high school guidance counselor they’re blessings in disguise, clear indicators of career paths he shouldn’t waste time exploring.

I laughed when the guidance counselor took me aside after a basketball game and shared Luke’s philosophical approach to academia. The counselor confirmed what I already knew: Luke is comfortable with his foibles, at ease with having limits. And I am glad about that.

His father didn’t see it that way.

When Luke graduated from Chatham High School four months ago, he took the top prize from the English department and was recognized for his magna cum laude performance on the national Latin exam. I was proud of his accomplishments, of course, but I was also proud of what he did next. When the physics instructor walked to the podium to present the award to the student who had excelled in the sciences, Luke twisted in his seat and caught my eye, nearly losing his tasseled cap in the process. “Get ready,” he mouthed, pounding his thumb against the dark blue gown at his chest. “This baby’s all mine.” It was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

His father didn’t see it that way.

When Luke enrolled at Boston College, I encouraged him to sign up for the courses he likes, to pursue the subjects that interest him. After all, I reasoned, Luke is training for his future. And he’s a naturally energetic, upbeat guy. He ought to fashion a future that suits him.

His father didn’t see it that way.

Ralph is a forensic psychiatrist. He’s a scientist at heart, a man who reduces all aspects of existence to their component parts. For Ralph, there is no life problem that doesn’t have a logical solution. And the solution to Luke’s problems, Ralph always tells both of us, is simple: He should work harder. He should be more like Ralph.

Luke doesn’t see it that way.

Tonight Ralph is worked up over Luke’s first-semester schedule. “There’s not a single science course in the lineup,” Ralph told me ten minutes ago. He had repeated this shocking tidbit of information three times since then. And I kept forgetting to gasp.

It occurs to me that it’s a little late to complain about courses Luke selected four months ago, in June, but I don’t mention it. When Ralph’s worked up, I clam up. That’s a routine we established a long time ago.

“He’s taking art history, for Christ’s sake,” Ralph adds now. Apparently this, too, is a capital offense.

Danny Boy has been panting at the living room window, paws on the sill, keeping a watchful eye on us throughout our driveway debate. He starts barking at Ralph now, moving his big paws up to the windowpane, his nails scratching the glass. I’m not sure what prompted his change in demeanor, but I decide to trust his canine instincts. “I’m going in now,” I tell Ralph. “There’s nothing more to say. We disagree. That’s all there is to it.”