Once, when I was sixteen—funny that I remember this above so many other things—dad came home early on a day when I’d brought a girl home with me. He walked through the front door and right into the living room, where she and I were basically naked on the sofa. I wasn’t expecting him to be home. When he was employed, he was a photo stripper, making plates out of computer-generated photographs for a print shop on the south side. He worked long hours—longer even than mom—and I just wasn’t expecting him to be home. He told the girl—Amy something—to get her clothes back on, and he told me to wait where I was, but didn’t specify if I could get dressed. When Amy was gone, he walked into the kitchen, popped the cork on a bottle of wine, and spent the rest of the afternoon draining and refilling his glass.