“Hank, if you don’t stop, you’ll have to go outside.”
I purse my lips together.
“I mean it.”
I look at the old guy to my left. I mean OLD, like 88. I don’t know what my Aunt Jo objects to, exactly, but maybe she doesn’t get the jokes or maybe she really does think we are too old — or at least Hank is too old — to be silly.
It’s 10 below out there. I’m not going to be the cause of his exile.
Hank looks at me sideways like a conspiratorial kid about to launch a spit-wad at the teacher, and I look down at my ice cream. In front of us is a plate of Christmas cookies.
“He’d live on cookies if I let him,” she says.
Hank and I start laughing.
Hank glances at Jo, stands up, turns around, opens the sliding glass door and goes out to the patio without a word. He’s probably out there giggling.