My stepmother told my father to crawl for a glass of water with a broken leg. I said nothing, helped him into my Rolls-Royce, and made one quiet call. The next day, when the papers hit the table, all the color left her face.
By the time I walked into my father’s house that afternoon, the television was too loud, the curtains were half-drawn against the Texas sun, and a half-full glass of water was sitting on the kitchen counter just out of his reach. My father was on the couch with a broken leg in a dull white…
