“Mama had her little cough...once or twice, some quiet sobbing, out of sight...or the slamming of kitchen cupboard doors. That was her language. The mere moving of her fork a half-inch to the right spelled dread at the dinner table. Her furious, silent withdrawals could last for days, even weeks at a time. Because she never spoke her mind, we never knew what this was all about. We two boys didn't, at any rate. Dad, home from work, went down to the basement and thumped a punching bag. That was his language. My brother, Ted, beat on his drum. And I, too, had learn a way of expressing myself wordlessly...getting sick. That was my language.”