How carefully he removes it, bought for the anniversary party, folding its creases and passing its care to me, the custodian of my father's only new suit in ten years. Clean it, press it, he says. It's too good for his closet, certain to be vandalized by The Home's keepers. The suit comes back in its plastic wrapper and I hang it with my own next to the others rubbing shoulders in the dark.

The suit—hell, it cost 90 bucks!—was necessary. You couldn't let the old man out in what he'd wear. He'd protested. He might not need it again. Where does he go? But we insist, take it, take it. After the party, he gives it back, while Darby, making him Chevalier or Chaplin, a sexy octogenarian, nibbles her grandfather's ear, strokes his neck. Myrna and I push the suit away, mistaking his meaning. Darby, wiser, interprets his intent.

Will we store the new suit till a next-time?