"I took my father's watch," my father said. "And the gold rims, the good glasses, the set with the platter, but he wouldn't take those, he said nobody buys glassware. And I took the camera." He laughed, once, without any sound in it. "He gave me a hundred and forty for the camera. I'd paid a hundred and ten for it in nineteen ninety-seven. I remember thinking, well, at least it went up."
"You could have told us," I said. My voice came out higher than I meant it to.
"Told you what? That your mother's camera was at the pawn shop? That your dad couldn't keep the heat on?" He looked at me then, finally, and his eyes were wet but nothing was coming out of them. "Maya, you were twelve. You were sleeping in your coat. What was I going to tell you that would have made that better?"
"You could have told me," said Niva.
It was the first thing she had said since she took the camera. Her voice was steady. It was steadier than his.
"You told me it got lost in the move," she said. "When we moved from Whitesboro. I asked you about it, like, three times. I asked you when I signed up for photo in tenth grade. I said, didn't Mom have a real camera? And you said you thought it got lost in the move, and you'd look in the basement."
"I know," said my father.
"There isn't even a basement. We don't have access to the basement. Mrs. Okafor's son keeps his kayak down there."
"I know, Niva."
"I looked anyway. I asked Mr. Antonelli for the key and I looked."