My dad was always a sucker for birthdays. Every year, he loved the ritual. The attention. The cake. Heck, we all loved the cake. But most of all, Dad loved our gifts. No matter what we gave him... it was his moment of glory. His time in the sun. His chance... to be king for a day. Unfortunately by birthday-time, nineteen-seventy-one... the king wasn't looking so... kingly. Maybe it was because he was about to turn forty-three in a week. Maybe it was the day-to-day irritations. Maybe it was something else. Face it. For the past six months, ever since he'd found out my sister was co-habitating without benefit of clergy... Dad had become kinda... monosyllabic.
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