“Couillon,” Luke said again. Then he grinned at me sidelong.“What’s your dad do, Paul?” Trip asked, ignoring Luke’s barb.“He’s an airl...ne pilot,” I said. “He flies 727s.”“Oh, that reminds me of this great joke,” Luke said.Trip rolled his eyes, but grinned nonetheless.“Okay,” Luke said, slipping into a thick Cajun accent, “Boudreaux and Thibodeaux, they buy t’is airplane and start they own airline.”Trip and I nodded.“On they first flight to Jamaica,” Luke said, “one engine up an’ dies. Well, ol’. I had so many memories of my father’s half-shadowed figure sitting on the back deck at night, pipe stem curled at the corner of his mouth, squinting through smoke as he read, a glass of wine beside him.When I was finished the boxes of books formed a fortress wall of giant cardboard bricks on one side of the room. I’d left behind a few volumes for myself, although I had no idea how I’d keep them with me after I sold the place.Downstairs the sun was just beginning to appear through the western. More

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