Julian did not answer. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, wiped his palms on his jeans, and shoved them straight back into the denim.
“He is old, Sarah,” he mumbled. “You are not here during the week. You do not see how he gets.”
“I was with him yesterday morning,” I said. “He was fine.”
“You do not know what she is like when she gets this way,” Julian said, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely cleared his chin.
“When she gets what way?” I asked.
He did not answer. He just stared at the metal coin return slot of the vending machine.
“Who brought the bat, Julian?”
“It was just there,” he mumbled. “In the hall.”
“Dad keeps his baseball bat in the garage behind the lawnmower,” I said. “It has been there since nineteen ninety-six.”
Julian shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in one quick, nervous motion. He looked at his watch, then back at the floor.
“We just wanted to get the signature,” he said.
