When he saw me in the doorway, he turned down the volume. “I’m playing emotional music,” he said, without emotion, his way of acknowledging that taking apart his boyhood bed signified the end of something. Never again would he be able to come back to his room the way it had been in his high school years, the years when he more or less defined himself. Beneath the posters on one wall, beneath two coats of paint, you could still feel the ridges of the giant rainbow he and his mother had painted when he was four.

He slid the desktop off, then vacuumed (!) behind it. “Man,” he said, “those nights I was awake down here until 4 in the morning, you should have come down and beaten me with a baseball bat.”

…in my experience, there’s no statute of limitations when it comes to a parent’s interest in a child’s secret life

“Why’s that?” (For the record: I have never beaten anyone with anything, unless you count ill-chosen words.)

“All that time worried about all kinds of things not worth worrying about… what a waste.”

I was going to ask him which things in particular he wished he hadn’t worried about — in my experience, there’s no statute of limitations when it comes to a parent’s interest in a child’s secret life — when his phone rang, or played whatever song it played those days instead of ringing.

“What do you want?” Among his friends, feigned gruffness is a sort of comic gesture without a punchline. His next sentence, perfectly calm, was “Taking apart my desk. It’s all emotional.” Then, “You called me”; and, “Okay.” He tapped the off button.

It had been one of the girls who hung out, off and on, with our son and his friends. None of them had dated her, though several of them had been interested from time to time.

In less than a minute, the phone rang again; he answered, and I stepped out, giving him privacy. But while I looked through some books, I thought his voice was oddly subdued, rather than flirtatious or friendly. When he finally ended the call, he stepped out of his room, putting his wallet into his back pocket, and said, “We need to go to the hospital.”

I assumed I had mis-heard.

“Zy is dead,” my son said, and headed up the stairs.

“What?” I said again.

“He was in an accident on his motorcycle.”

In a minute we were backing out of the driveway. The second call had been from Muffin — who now wanted to be known by his given name, Michael. One of that gang of five.