|The corner of Roosevelt Avenue and Easy Street, Sayville|
“Remember the Fayes? On Roosevelt Avenue?”
Without pause, my father said, “You are not working for Al Faye.”
I rolled my eyes. “Dad, the man’s dead. And Mrs. Faye is very sick.”
“Well, that’s a shame.” Dad pointed. “Set the table. If I remember correctly, there were two boys. One’s a convicted felon. Where’s the other one?”
“Toby is still there.” I went to the cabinet and took out dishes.
“What’s his story? He’s been in trouble?”
“I don’t think so. You’d know, wouldn’t you?”
“Ah, probably just a matter of time before we arrest him for something.” Dad added some salt to the pot and tasted it.
“That’s not a nice thing to say,” I chided him.
“I don’t want you there, in that environment,” he said.
“Unless the older son breaks out of jail, I think I’ll be safe.”
“In seriously damaged families like theirs, the residual effects always spiral down to the kids. The older boy was ruined and, mark my words, if there is trouble to be found, the younger boy is going to find it, too.”