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learn his name? Someone else brought back the receipt for me to sign. My card was gone, and George was, too. I saw him, as we were leaving, bringing out a cake with a candle and singing " Happy Birthday" to someone, some star, he told me later; he'd remember who. She got up, whoever she was, and embraced him, just as we all were leaving.
       He called the next day. I was at the office, so when my assistant told me there was a Mr. Seeger on the line I didn't know who that was.
       "That's S-e-e-g-e-r," I heard her say; I like names to be spelled right. "From Ecco."
       "This Mr. Seeger," I called to her when his message appeared on my screen, "did he leave a first name?"
    "No," she said. "He said you'd know what it was regarding."
    "I don't," I told her. I don't know why.
    " Would you like me to call him?"
       "Don't," I said. "We have the number. And if it's important, he'll call back."
       I look into the mirror, unsteamed now. They're waiting for me, in the kitchen. "Progress," I tell my face, "will be slow. But steady." My phone rings again. "It's for me!" I call out. But they already know that.

4. George

    H is waffles are perfect, and he's cleaned up, too; he's left no trace of last night's midnight raider. Lola says he's a slob at home, hopeless, but he's not one here with us; he is, if anything, neater than I am, which is saying a lot and is helpful in a small space.
         "What do you think?" he asks, offering a crisp little waffle corner. "And please don't be blindly supportive."
         I spit my little taste into the sink, hoping he'll laugh. But he doesn't; it's hard with kids, I've learned, with this one, anyway, to know when you've crossed the line into the land of Too Far, or to see the line at all. Anything that involves expertise, or technique? Careful.
         "I'm sorry," I say. "It's completely delicious. Is that withholding enough?"
         "Be serious, George. Do you have any meaningful pointers?"
         I have to keep myself from laughing; he thinks he's the last word in snark and irony when, in truth, he's the last thing he'd want to be, which is deeply earnest. No wonder he walks the roof at night; there's a sleeping city to protect! And does he think this is some rite of passage, male to male, the lore of the tender waffle? I just wish I had something of value to give him, how to steal fire from the gods, say, or fix a show in trouble. I didn't know that this was how it would be to have a kid around, to always feel that what you're giving them isn't what they need. "You'll have to wait," I say. "I'll need to talk to the village elders."
       Kenny's cell phone rings, from our end of the hall; Wesley and I both hear him answer it. Here he comes to save the day. Again.
       "He's just going to take this one." I hope I'm right; I beam that wish down the hallway. "And then I know he's really eager to talk to you."
       "Dad's incredible," Wesley says.
       "He is."
       "I could never be like him."
       "It might be too early to tell."
       "Not for me," he says, with a little snort. " Trust me: I know myself."
       I decide to jump right into it. "You were up on the roof last night," I say. "Pretty late, too." I don't mention the dozen other times I've heard him; I don't want to scare him away.
       "Did I wake you guys?"
       "I was up, anyway."
       "Because if I did—"
       "But you didn't." I turn the oven to low, put the waffles on a plate, get them in. "And you made a sandwich. Don't deny it. I sense these things."
       He's impressed. "That's amazing. I tried to be really quiet."
       "I believe it was tuna, sir!" I cry, evidence gathered, in my role as
    houseboy to that before-their-time gay couple Henry Higgins and Sherlock Holmes. "And you used that hazelnut pane rustico—"
       "You're good, George."
       I fixate on the sandwich; for some reason I always feel it's my job to fill in people on new elements for old standards,