Henry had been a quiet, precise man. He was intensely private. There were only rare moments when the mask slipped. Once, when Henry was sick with a high fever, he mumbled in his sleep. Another time, at a cousin’s wedding, he had gotten quite drunk. His voice had shifted.
The vowels of his speech sounded different. There was a hard, guttural rhythm beneath his words that William had never heard before. William’s mother had acted quickly those nights. She would put a hand on Henry’s back and guide him toward the bedroom, her voice low and soothing.
William had always interpreted her actions as wifely tenderness. And there was no doubt that his parents had been very much in love all their lives. Now, he wondered if the reason hadn’t been something more than love. She was guarding his secret. He looked at his father’s old tools on the workbench. Was this precision a habit learned under a different uniform? William gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. He was terrified that the man who taught him to fish might have committed acts that defied human decency.