Joe felt like a child. Both sets of parents were waiting at the front door and he felt like a child; like a little boy forced to play house with a schoolgirl; forced to pretend like he was a grownup, like he knew how to handle adult problems, like the doll in the little girl’s arms was a real, living baby.

The Dalton’s were first in line; hugs and kisses from Anna’s mother while Harold attacked Joe with a pat on the back, handshake, and the usual testosterone formalities that accompanied a job well done. “He’s gonna be the next great Packer’s quarterback, eh, Joe?”

Joe nodded.

His own parents were next. His father still wore his work tie, but his coat was draped over the living-room recliner and his sleeves were rolled past his elbows. A single nod was the only congratulations Joe expected from his dad, and it was all he received. His mother, already crying, wiped blue streaks of shadow into her cheeks. She hugged Joe, then Anna, then gushed over the tiny addition to the family.

“What do we have here?” The guttural rasp belonged to Judy Hansworth, chronic smoker, tomato-dyed bun, and three dozen brats running figure-eights around her heels. “He’s a beaut,” she said, then pulled back the blanket to better see Arthur’s face. “Got his mama’s nose, thank goodness.” She elbowed Joe in the ribs, then motioned to her friend. “Cheryl, would you look at this nose?”

Cheryl bounced forward and kissed Anna on the cheek. “Congrats, sweetheart,” she said, then looked at Arthur. “What a beautiful baby boy you are! Look at your little toes!”

Anna welcomed the attention, passing the child from one set of arms to another.

Arthur didn’t mind. His eyes remained closed and his breathing seemed normal.

The small gathering fit comfortably in Joe’s home, although—as Harold’s presence reminded him—it wasn’t technically his home. Three-quarters of the downpayment was a product of the Dalton’s love for their daughter and grandson. Anna may have rushed to marry a draft-dodging stock boy, but her family provided what he couldn’t. In return, Joe lost every battle about finances with his wife because “Mom and Dad are helping us out!” That’s also how Arthur got his name: a compromise between four people.

Joe pushed the sarcastic thoughts out of his head. This was his wife’s moment, and he wouldn’t ruin it with bitterness toward her family.

As the gaggle of family and friends rushed Anna to a comfortable chair, Joe spotted Chet and Don on the sofa. His friends provided an oasis from the chaos and he plopped down between them.

“Josie, Josie, Josie...” Chet sported shoulder-length dreads, blue jeans with more holes than denim, and a Rolling Stones t-shirt that read, “1972 - US Tour.” “What happened to you? A wife at your side and kid in her arms... you’re one of them.”

“I’m not one of them.”

“Chet’s right, our little Casanova’s all growed up.” Don was an Afro-American, dressed more formally than Chet with a headband, button-up shirt, and tie. “No more toolin’ Lincoln Avenue for college skag.”

“No more midnight marathons at The Biograph...”

“No more Uncle Sam hauntin’ your dreams...”

“Give me a break,” Joe scoffed and watched one of the Hansworth kids pull the wooden Skittles game from the cupboard.

“I called it two years ago,” Don said.

“He called it,” Chet confirmed. “The second he—”

“The second I saw you eyein’ the intern at your pop’s store—”

“She wasn’t an intern,” Joe said. “Dad hired her to paint the windows.”

“Her in that skirt—”

“—and you with that blond Ringo Starr mop-top!”

“I told Chet, ‘That girl’s gonna take our boy away from us.’”

“And he was right.”

“Now it’s diapers and strollers and nine-o’clock bedtimes—”

“And tupperware parties.”

“But you know what?”

“What?” Joe asked as the Hansworth kid carried the wooden game to the dining-room table.

“I said... do you know what?”

“What?” Joe said again and refocused his attention on his friends.

“You’re a better man than both of us combined.”

“It’s true,” said Chet.

“And even though I’m a hood from Englewood, and Chet’s a grit janitor from Lasker’s Department Store... we’re gonna love that boy like he’s our own.”

Chet ruffled Joe’s hair. “And someday, when Arthur’s old enough to curse, we’ll tell him how his old man used to trip hard liquor and steal street signs.”

Don laughed. “But seriously, Josie... we love you and Anna.”

“And now we love Arthur too.”

Joe didn’t try to respond, but nodded, grabbed the top of his tie, and loosened the knot.

Judy Hansworth was holding Arthur now, spouting her endless knowledge about child rearing to Anna and anyone with ears. “You’ll do just great, sweetheart,” she said, then turned to Jean Dalton. “I let Anna borrow my copy of Baby and Child Care.”

Cheryl butted in. “We brought baby food in case you didn’t have enough. But we checked the pantry, and you could feed him till he’s twenty!”

“She’ll breast feed for at least ten months anyway,” Judy said.

Anna shook her head. “No, no. It’s fine. We’ll take all the help we can get.”

How is she doing this? Joe thought. Chatting and smiling while her son lays dying in the arms of another woman.

SMASH! A glass hit the linoleum floor. The room fell silent.

Joe looked to the dining-room table. The Hansworth kid was frozen in his seat. The steel ball from the Skittles game wobbled from its string confirming the boy’s guilt.

“Andrew Jacob Hansworth!” Judy yelled from the living room. “What did you do?” Her cheeks turned as red as her hair, then she stormed across the room, slapped her son across the face, grabbed him by the wrist, and dragged him upstairs.

The friends exchanged glances until Joe’s father broke the silence. “Watch your feet everyone. I’ll get the broom.”