"Yes," Calvert said. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "That's why I didn't put it on the board. I was going to. I had a whole panel for it. And then I didn't, and I told myself it was because there wasn't room, and that's not true. I didn't put it up because it's my name." He looked at the paper in Mick's fist. "I put yours up. I didn't put mine."
Mick looked at him a long time.
"That's a pretty crummy thing to do," he said.
"I know."
"No, I mean it. That's a crummy thing." But there was no heat in it, and after a minute Mick smoothed the crumpled edge of the paper flat on his knee with the side of his hand, carefully, and folded it back into quarters and handed it back. "You know what's funny," he said. "I came in there this morning to make you take it down so nobody would see my grandpa's name. And now you're telling me you left your grandpa's name off. So we're the same, kind of. We're both just trying to hide the guy."
Calvert put the paper back in the shoebox under the Ziploc bag.
"There's something else," he said. "I don't know what it means. It's in the book, near the end. After '61. He kept writing in it, a little, not inspections anymore, just notes." He took the logbook out of the bag. He did not usually let anybody else hold it, but he held it out now, open, and Mick took it the way you would take a bird. "There. That page. And the one after."
Mick read. The entries were short and spaced out over years, in the same bad handwriting. Dec 1961. Stasia K. gave me the sweater. Said she knows what I said and she knows why. Said T. told her I had Bertie to feed & one of us had to keep working. She made it with the mistake in. Said thats so I remember. And then, a page later: Groceries Pine St every Sat. T. wont take money. S. does. And further down, years on, in a shakier hand, the pencil pressed light: Oct 1979. T.K. buried St Canicus. I didn't go in. Stood across the street. Coward to the end.