Horns

’M IN the laundry room folding my father’s clothes. I leave three neat stacks on the washer: shirts, pants, underwear, plus a pile of socks behind them. I always start with the pants, the bigger things, before moving on to whatever remains in my hands. As I’m folding one of his white t-shirts, my father comes in from the store. I look at him and he looks at me. I smile but he looks away. He opens the freezer, which is next to the washer-dryer, and puts chicken breasts, sealed