Some mornings he could discuss performance history for hours and then forget where the toilet was.
Sometimes he called Jamie by his birth father's name.
The first time, Jamie left the room and cried.
Later he returned and sat beside Arthur.
“Dad.”
Arthur looked confused.
“I'm Jamie.”
“I know who you are.”
“Do you?”
Arthur studied his face for a long time.
Then smiled.
“My boy.”
Jamie lowered his head.
Blood had never mattered less.
Eleanor began recording Arthur's stories with his permission. Not only the polished cultural material—the messy things too. Factory work. Street games. Floods. Teaching. Mistakes. The friend whose death changed his family. Why he adopted Jamie. Why he pushed Eleanor too hard.
One afternoon he said, “I wanted you to carry what I loved. I forgot to ask what you loved.”