At nine o’clock Sunday morning, he drove us to my mother Helen’s little ranch house in West Allis for breakfast.

He brought a white bakery box of cherry pastries, set it on her flowered kitchen table and pulled out a chair for me with smooth good manners.

My mother put down her glass coffee pot and smiled at him.

“You look worn out, David.

Is the corporate job keeping you late on weekends?”

“It’s been a demanding month at the regional office, Helen,” David said, sitting down and smoothing his silk tie.

“And Clara has been under a lot of physical strain with the baby.”