It was a fundamental lapse of family allegiance. A critical breach Edward detected in his father’s affiliation with him. There had been other violations of their relationship over the years, some only minor infractions, many not so slight, but this transgression was not a minor defect.

A Saturday evening and the sun beginning to relinquish its warmth. It was a city sun disappearing quickly for there was no horizon to delay its retreat. Twilight was descending on the neighborhood. A haze appeared, shrouding the city like a tattered strip of gauze. Everything appeared distant, as if the earth recoiled when threatened by the loss of warmth and light. Edward surveyed the houses he passed, squinting against the fading sunlight to catch a glimpse of his neighbors enjoying the mild weather.

Through the kitchen window of his home Edward glimpsed his mother’s head, bent over the sink, her thinning gray hair barely visible through the soiled glass. She looked up for a moment, her cheerless face moving nearer the window. Edward waved. She didn’t see him. She was looking beyond the neighborhood, beyond the noise and the traffic, diligently slicing carrots, placing them on a plate with other sliced carrots, celery stalks quartered and cut in half and Spanish olives, the kind that tasted both rancid and savory when Edward slid one into his mouth. She appeared lost in another world as she prepared for her husband’s monthly poker party.

Sausages filled the frying pan, Italian and Polish. Sandwiches - liver sausage, ham and cheese and corned beef - packed the refrigerator. Three-dozen cans of beer shoved into the refrigerator that morning. Dad liked them ice cold. Edward’s sister, Roberta, washed the tumblers and placed them upside down on the kitchen counter, in readiness for anyone who might ask for a highball.

Edward’s father hunched over the dining room table counting out poker chips, stacking them neatly in even piles. When he finished he stalked into the kitchen to see if the beer was cold, then returned to the dining room and carefully placed bottles of bourbon and gin on the card table near the window.

Outside, Edward and his brother, Kevin, rode around the neighborhood on Kevin’s bicycle. Kevin pedaled, Edward sat on the back fender, his shoes resting on the axle bolts, arms wrapped around his brother’s waist. The ride was jarring as they swerved to miss gaps and holes in the sidewalk created from years of traffic and bitter winters.

Kevin swerved to avoid their neighbor, Mrs. Patrowski, heading toward them with shopping cart in tow, forcing the bike to abruptly cut across the vacant lot. The lot was criss-crossed with deeply grooved paths from other bicyclers seeking a shortcut. Isolated piles of litter and a few discarded tires decorated it as if someone had dumped the trash in a pattern thinking the design would divert attention away from the notion that it was garbage.

Edward turned away from the kitchen window. The front tire of Kevin’s bicycle hit something solid concealed beneath the weeds. The jounce, for that’s all it was, tossed Edward slightly sideways, like a person’s rear end might make an almost unnoticeable variation in the passenger seat of a car when the vehicle makes contact with a small pothole. He shifted his butt back to the center of the fender but lost his balance when the bicycle struck something else, something more substantial. His left foot was thrust between the spokes of the back wheel. He screamed, first from pain, then for Kevin to stop. Kevin jumped from the bike. It fell to the ground, the spokes cutting deeper into Edward’s flesh.

After the poker game, after the leftovers of sausage, potato chips and peanuts were put away, the empty beer cans discarded in the trash, Edward brooded, for himself and what his accident had revealed, feelings ever present but never acknowledged. He spent his time impatiently waiting for his ankle to heal. When the stitches, thirty of them, were removed, he limped down the alley to the playground next to the elementary school, limited to being only a spectator for the basketball or softball games his friends played.

Despite his eagerness to rid himself of his temporary disability, he discovered that a limp gave stature that normal walking never did. Even the girls gave him a sliver of attention, another bright spot in the course of his recuperation. Like anyone who seldom received the attention he craves, what precipitated the attention lingers long after that justification is gone. His limp remained a distinct part of his outward presentation to his friends far longer than the healing process required. Kids brought him bottles of pop from the store because he tired easily. They asked questions. Did it bleed a lot? How big is the scar? You think you’ll always have that limp? "As well as can be expected," he told them. And, "Yes, it was all the way to the bone." It wasn’t. And, "I don’t know," although he knew the limp would vanish as soon as he saw that it’s use no longer had value.

During those weeks of impatience, resting on the back porch swing, he longed for his father to say, "Wow, you really did yourself in. How ya gettin’ along?" And Edward’s reply, "Well, it’s coming along. I think a few more weeks might just do it." And his father, "Hey, I’m really sorry I didn’t come out to help you out of that mess, but.…" He struggled with those visions and realized how deceiving they were.

Instead, his comfort came from an unlikely source, the Rag Man, an old black man who, every Saturday, collected discarded clothing and rags. Slumped on the porch swing, reading comic books, legs across the seat of warped unpainted boards, back against the arm rest, pillow under his ankle, Edward watched for the Rag Man to turn down the alley precisely at the time the Rag Man felt inclined to turn down the alley. He listened for his gravely voice calling "Rag man, rag man. Want yo old rags." When he heard the rattle and cough of the truck he gathered up a pile of rags and old shirts his mother had left on the porch that morning and limped to the alley.

The truck moved leisurely, a skinny black arm hanging limply along the door, a bald black head bobbing up and down, back and forth in harmony with the bouncing truck.

It jerked to a stopped. The dented door gave up a piercing squeak as the Rag Man leaped to the ground. He was short, not much taller than Edward. He wore a white shirt buttoned to the collar and baggy pants that were in no better shape than the rags he collected. "You really got some banged up there," he said, pointing to Edward’s ankle. He talked in a drawl, jumbling his words together and making him hard to understand. Edward didn’t answer right away. He had been so long under the sentence of harsh words or no words at all that a question showing any interest in him dimmed his thinking. All the good things he had done, all of his deeds, however insignificant, where he desired notice and a modest word of praise that he had accomplished something, or a word of sympathy when he was distressed or physically or emotionally wounded, were never acknowledged by his father. Now, here, an old foul smelling, half toothless rag man had done something for him that his father should have done. What was he to say? How was he to show his appreciation to a rag collector?

"Pretty good on the mend, hey?" the Rag Man said. Edward turned his head toward the house to see if anyone was watching. His father maybe, wondering what could be so important in his son’s life that the old black man in the rusted, battered truck showed interest? He turned back to the Rag Man who patiently lingered next to his truck, one hand on his hip, the other grasping the door handle. The knuckles were scarred, the fingernails jagged and caked with dirt. Calluses filled the palms. They weren’t big hands, not the kind one would think could pry apart bicycle spokes. Behind the Rag Man the truck sputtered dirty smoke from its tail pipe. The engine shuddered as if distraught at being impeded from following its route. "Yeah," is all Edward could mutter. "Well, you really did yourself in," said the Rag Man. "How ya gettin’ along?" Edward replied, "It’s coming along. It’s pretty well healed now." "Well, you take care of that leg," the Rag Man said with a sympathetic grin. "Can’t play ball with a bum leg." And he was back in his truck heading down the alley yelling "Rag man, rag man, want yo old rags."