Eddie Kaplin sat at the kitchen table eating a scrambled egg and toast. His mother checked his math homework and signed it after calculating each problem to make sure his answers were correct.

    She wore a loose-fitting flannel robe and slippers, and sat across from him at their new Formica and chrome kitchen table covered with a green and blue plastic tablecloth. Eddie smelled coffee percolating on the stove in a little metal pot with a glass window on the top. Most mornings, his father sat with them at the table and ate breakfast while reading the newspaper. This morning, he had an appointment in Valley Stream on Long Island. Eddie knew that meant his father would take the car instead of the subway. He liked thinking of his dad driving to work in the yellow and black 1951 Buick Special they had recently bought. Less than four years old, it was practically brand new.

    His father dressed in a suit that morning, the dark one he wore to weddings and funerals. "You look sharp as a tack," his mother said. They kissed, and Eddie turned his head.

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