Most children say mama, uttering the phrase around age two to the delight of proud parents. At that age Junior wore a stiff black suit and squirmed in the overly hot funeral home, tugging at his collar. His lips were sealed by his mother’s death, people said. Her family turned out in furs and silk, his father’s in shabby coats. In a way, they weren’t wrong about his silence. At four he climbed up on his father’s lap, wrapped plump childish arms around his father’s neck and whispered his first words: “I saw what you did.” His father was never sober again.