Lunar Park

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31

3. morning

I woke up in the guest bedroom with no idea of how I’d gotten there, but I didn’t panic—I took this in stride—because the guest bedroom was something that had been happening with a regularity I hadn’t found alarming yet. Victor was barking from somewhere inside the house, and the clock on the nightstand said 7:15. I groaned and pushed my face deep into a pillow (it was damp; I had been crying in my sleep again) but then sat up quickly, with the realization that I needed to prove something this morning: that I was responsible, that I wasn’t an addict, that I was clean. But I couldn’t rouse myself because the hangover was intense and accompanied by its usual horniness: a painfully hard erection was sticking out of my boxers, which I stared at futilely, doing nothing with it. Finally I was gazing at myself in the mirror of the guest bathroom. I had the dehydrated and haggard face of a man ten years older, and my eyes were so red that you couldn’t see the irises. I guzzled water from the tap, then decided to make myself halfway presentable by pulling off the T-shirt with the marijuana leaf on it and then putting it back on inside out. Since I couldn’t find my jeans I tore the top sheet off the bed and draped myself in it. I walked out of the room a ghost.

Trudging toward the kitchen, I passed the housekeeper, Rosa, vacuuming the living room and I followed large footprints that seemed to have been stamped in ash onto the beige carpeting, which this morning seemed shaggier and darker than normal. As the ghost padded through the living room it stopped when it noticed the odd formation of the furniture. The sectional couch, the Le Corbusier chairs and the Eames tables had been rearranged for the party, yet this new setup now seemed weirdly familiar to me. I wanted to figure out why, but the sound of the vacuum merging with Victor’s barking forced the ghost to move quickly toward the kitchen.

The house had been referred to as a McMansion in the Talk article: nine thousand square feet and situated in a fast-growing and wealthy suburb, and 307 Elsinore Lane wasn’t even the grandest in the community—it merely reflected the routine affluence of the neighborhood. It was, according to a spread in Elle Decor, “minimalist global eclectic with an emphasis on Spanish revival” but with “elements of midcentury French chateau and a touch of sixties Palm Springs modernism” (imagine that if you can; it was not a design concept everyone grasped). The interior was done in soothing shades of sandcastle and white corn, lily and bleached flour. Stately and lavish, slick and sparsely furnished, the house had four high-ceilinged bedrooms and a master suite that occupied half of the second story and included a fireplace, a wet bar, a refrigerator, two 165-square-foot walk-in closets and window shades that disappeared into pockets in the ceiling, and each of the two adjoining bathrooms had a giant sunken tub. There was a fully equipped gym where I sometimes exercised halfheartedly and where Jayne’s personal trainer, Klaus, helped sculpt her flawless body—and there was a sprawling media room with a plasma TV that had a screen the size of a small wall and surround sound and hundreds of DVDs shelved alphabetically on either side of it, as well as a red felt antique pool table. And the house flowed: large, carefully designed empty spaces merged seamlessly into one another to give the illusion that the house was far grander than it actually was.

The ghost floated toward the kitchen, or “family headquarters,” that really was a marvel—all stainless steel and countertops made from Brazilian concrete, a Thermador range, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, two dishwashers, two stoves with noiseless fans, two sinks, a wine cooler, a drawer freezer and an entire wall of sliding glass that overlooked an Olympic-sized swimming pool (without guard rails since Sarah and Robby were already expert swimmers) and a Jacuzzi and a vast, intensely green and lush lawn, which was bordered by a huge and carefully maintained garden blooming with flowers I didn’t know the names of, and beyond all that was the clearing and then the woods. The ghost saw no party detritus cluttering the house. It was immaculate. Confused but impressed, the ghost stared at a vase of fresh tulips sitting in the center of the kitchen table.

Marta was already up, fiddling with a Gaggia espresso maker as the chic, hungover ghost wrapped in the Frette sheet hovered around the kitchen, placing his burning forehead against the wine-cooling cabinet for one brief moment (the ghost noticed bitterly that it was empty) before falling into a chair at the giant round table on the far side of the room. Marta was a purposefully unattractive woman in her midthirties whom Jayne had befriended while shooting a movie in L.A. She was loyal and discreet and handled all of Jayne’s business effortlessly—just one of the thousands of women from that town so attracted to celebrity and so devoted to its demands that she followed Jayne across the country to these cold and unknown suburbs. Before Jayne she had worked for Penny Marshall, Meg Ryan and, briefly, Julia Roberts, and she had the eerie ability to intuit whatever need or request the celebrity might have at any moment. Plus the kids seemed responsive to her, which took a lot of pressure off their mother. Jayne’s trust in her was what gave Marta drive and ambition; it was what flattered her and gave her sustenance. This was as close as she was ever going to get to being famous herself, and Marta took the job seriously. But she seemed sad to me, since growing up in that world I had encountered hundreds of Martas—women (and men) so enslaved to the cause of celebrity that their own world was annihilated. She had a small apartment—that Jayne paid for—in town. (I didn’t know where Rosa lived, only that her quiet Salvadorian father would pick her up from Elsinore Lane at eight in the evening and bring her back the next morning at dawn.)

The ghost needed coffee.

And suddenly Marta was setting an Hermès Chaine d’Ancre china cup filled with steamy, milky espresso in front of him, and the ghost mumbled his thanks as she went over to the Waring juice extractor and started squeezing oranges. Strung out, the ghost stared at the copper pans hanging from a rack above the island in the middle of the kitchen, morosely sipping his coffee as his eyes shifted to the Daily Variety already sitting on top of a pile that included the New York Times, the Calendar section from the Los Angeles Times and the Hollywood Reporter. Hearing voices from upstairs, I breathed in deeply as I reached for our local paper, preparing myself, because I was still—even without a hangover—having trouble adjusting to the schedules everyone inhabiting this house maintained. So after Marta left the kitchen to get Sarah (who was practicing a second language on flash cards) I roused myself and poured a large glass of freshly squeezed OJ and dosed it with a half-empty bottle of Ketel One left over from the party and neatly hidden among all the olive oil at the end of the counter. It was a small miracle no one had gotten rid of it. I sipped the cocktail carefully and returned to the table.

The newspapers kept stroking my fear. New surveys provided awful statistics on just about everything. Evidence suggested that we were not doing well. Researchers gloomily agreed. Environmental psychologists were interviewed. Damage had “unwittingly” been done. There were “feared lapses.” There were “misconceptions” about potential. Situations had “deteriorated.” Cruelty was on the rise and there was nothing anyone could do about it. The populace was confounded, yet didn’t care. Unpublished studies hinted that we were all paying a price. Scientists peered into data and concluded that we should all be very worried. No one knew what normal behavior was anymore, and some argued that this was a form of virtue. And no one argued back. No one challenged anything. Anxiety was soaking up most people’s days. Everyone had become preoccupied with horror. Madness was fluttering everywhere. There was fifty years of research supporting this data. There were diagrams illustrating all of these problems—circles and hexagons and squares, different sections colored in lime or lilac or gray. Most troubling were the fleeting signs that nothing could transform any of this into something positive. You couldn’t help being both afraid and fascinated. Reading these articles made you feel that the survival of mankind didn’t seem very important in the long run. We were doomed. We deserved it. I was so tired. (What worried Jayne besides the upcoming reshoots? The kids were mimicking our facial expressions, which for the last month had consisted of hassled grimaces.)

And so many children were missing that it bordered on an epidemic. About a dozen boys had disappeared since I arrived in July—only boys. Their photos were flashed on the Internet and updates were posted on special Web sites devoted to them, their solemn faces staring out at you, their shadows following you everywhere. I read about another missing Boy Scout—the third in the last year. This boy, too, was Robby’s age, and his witless, angelic face now graced the front page of the newspaper. But none of these children had been found. No bodies discovered in the ravine or in the concrete drainpipe; no remains in the dry creek bed or in the suspicious duffel bag tossed off the turnpike; nothing lying naked and defiled in the woods. These boys had vanished without a trace, and there were no hints that any of them was ever coming back. Investigators were on “frantic searches.” Parents of the missing boys were urged to appear on CNN and humanize their child in case the abductors were watching. Except for increasing ratings, these news conferences accomplished nothing beyond serving as a reminder of “the incidental malice of the universe” (courtesy of Time). This publicity was supposed to mobilize volunteers but people were giving up hope—so many boys were missing, people had simply become alienated and longed for a lesser horror to take this one’s place. There were candlelight vigils where families linked hands and lowered their heads, grief-stricken and praying, though to me they more often resembled participants in a séance. Various organizations proposed plaques to memorialize the lost. Students at Buckley (the private school Robby and Sarah attended) were encouraged to e-mail condolences to the bereaved parents. We were supposed to rehearse our children on the usual tired litany: don’t talk to strangers, ignore the well-dressed soft-spoken man looking for help to find his puppy; “Yell and Tell” and “Rehearse a Route” and “Avoid the Clown.” Distrust everybody was the message. Everywhere people heard the sound of children weeping. Silly Putty was used in school classes for squeezing out tension. We were advised to always keep recent photographs of our children on hand.

And now the missing Boy Scout inevitably provoked the flicker of worry I experienced every morning before Robby and Sarah went off to school, especially if the hangover was bad or I’d had too much coffee. This wide-awake nightmare lasted no more than thirty seconds, a rapid montage that nonetheless required a Klonopin: a rampage at the school, “I’m so scared” being whispered over the cell phone, what sounds like firecrackers popping off in the background, the ricocheting bullet that hurls the second-grader to the floor, the random firing in the library, the blood sprayed over an unfinished exam, the red pools of it forming on the linoleum, the desk spattered with viscera, a wounded teacher ushering dazed children out of the cafeteria, the custodian shot in the back, the girl murmuring “I think I’ve been hit” before she faints, the CNN vans arriving, the stuttering sheriff at the emergency press conference, the bulletins flashing on TV screens, the “concerned” anchorman offering updates, the helicopters hovering, the final moments when the gunman places the Magnum in his mouth, the overcrowded hospital emergency rooms and the gymnasiums transformed into makeshift morgues, the yellow crime tape ribboned around an entire playground—and then, in the aftermath: the .22 rifle missing from the stepfather’s cabinet, the journal recounting the boy’s rejection and despair, a boy who took the teasing hard, the boy who had nothing to lose, the Elavil that didn’t take hold or the bipolar disorder not detected, the book on witchcraft found beneath the bed, the X carved into his chest and the attempted suicide the month before, the broken hand from punching a wall, the nights lying in bed counting to a thousand, the pet rabbit found later that afternoon hanged from a hook in a small closet—and, finally, the closing images of the endless coverage: the flag at half-staff, the memorial services, the hundreds of bouquets and candles and toys that filled the steps leading up to the school, the bloody hand of a victim on the cover of Newsweek, the questions asked, the simple shrugs, the civil suits filed, the copycats, the reasons you quit praying. Still, the worst news comes out of your own child’s mouth: “But he was normal, Dad—he was just like me.”

Though I hadn’t realized it, Jayne had walked into the kitchen without saying anything to the sniffling blob wrapped in the sheet hunched over the table. She was standing over the stove waiting for a pot of water to boil (she was making oatmeal for the kids), her back to me. I tried to translate her body language and failed. I zoned out again on the countertop specifically designed for the placement of olive oil bottles. Victor soon shuffled in. The dog stared at me. You bore me, it was thinking. Go ahead—make my day, it was thinking.

“Why does that very rude golden retriever bark all night long?” I asked, glaring back at the dog.

“Maybe because he got freaked out by the sight of your nineteen-year-old students screwing in our garage,” Jayne said immediately, without turning around. “Maybe because Jay McInerney was skinny-dipping in our pool.”

“That doesn’t sound like . . . the Jayster,” I said tentatively.

“Someone had to haul him out after you disappeared,” she said. “With a net.”

“Who’s Annette?” I realized something. “Oh, what net?” I asked flippantly. “We don’t own a net.” Worried pause. “Do we?”

“I looked around but you were already passed out in the guest room.” She said this with the fake nonchalance she had been developing since I moved into the house.

I sighed. “I did not ‘pass out,’ Jayne. I was exhausted.”

“Why, Bret? Why were you so exhausted?” she asked, her voice now clenched.

I sipped my drink. “Well, that dog’s been doing its big barking routine and begging for attention the entire week. You know, honey, this happened to coincide with me starting my novel and so it’s extremely distracting and suspicious.”

“Yes, I know, Victor doesn’t want you to write another book,” Jayne said, turning the stove off and moving toward the sink. “I’m so with you on that one.”

“I never see that dog frolic,” I muttered. “He’s been depressed ever since I moved in and I never see him frolic.”

“Well, when you kicked him the other night—”

“Hey, he was trying to eat a stick of butter,” I exclaimed, sitting up. “He was going after that loaf of cornbread on the counter.”

“Why are we talking about the dog?” she snapped, finally facing me.

After a contained silence I sipped my juice again and cleared my throat.

“So, you wanna read me my rights?” I sighed.

“Why bother?” she said tightly, turning away. “You’re still in a coma.”

“I suppose we’ll be discussing this in couples counseling.”

She said nothing.

I decided to change the topic, hoping for a softer reaction. “So who was the guy who came as Patrick Bateman last night?” I asked. “The guy in the Armani suit with all the fake blood on it?”

“I have no idea. A student of yours? One of your legions of fans? Why do you care?”

“I . . . didn’t recognize him,” I murmured. “I thought—”

“You thought what? That I knew him?”

“Never mind.” I shut up and thought about things for a moment or two. “And did you ever figure out what happened in Sarah’s room?” I asked gently. “Because, Jayne, I think maybe she did it.” I paused for emphasis. “But she told me her doll did it—that bird thing, you know, the Terby I bought last summer—and, y’know, that’s pretty worrisome. And by the way, where was Marta when this so-called attack happened? I think that’s pretty—”

Jayne whirled toward me. “Why are you avoiding the fact that maybe one of your drunk, fucked-up students did it?”

“My students had better things to do last night than ransack our daughter’s—”

“Yeah, like fuck in our shower—I have no idea who they were—and snort coke off the countertop in the kitchen.” She was still glaring at me, hands on her hips.

A long pause in which I built to an outraged “People were in the kitchen last night?!?”

“Yeah. People were doing drugs in the kitchen, Bret.” She recited this line in her hip-wary mode.

“Honey, look, drugs may have been done, but I’m sure they were consumed quietly and with discretion.” I paused helplessly.

“And I know you were doing them too.” Something caught in her throat, the sarcasm evaporated and she turned away from me again. She bowed her head. I noticed one hand was curled tightly into a fist. I could hear the erratic breathing that comes before tears.

“You mean I used to be doing them,” I said softly. “That sentence should be in the past tense.” I paused. “I’m up, aren’t I?”

“Barely,” she muttered. “You’re a wreck.”

“Look.” I made a useless gesture. “I’m sipping juice and scanning the papers.”

She suddenly composed herself. “Oh, forget it, forget it, forget it.”

“And why are you calling up Jay’s wife and asking—”

“I wouldn’t have to call Helen if you weren’t using again,” she said in a loud, anguished voice. She stopped and took a series of deep breaths to calm herself down. “I can’t do this now. Let’s just forget it.”

“That sounds reasonable,” I murmured gently, turning back to the papers. I attempted a long gulp from my glass but juice sloshed over the rim so I gave up and put it down on the table with a shaking hand.

Outraged by my casual tone, Jayne whirled around again. “It is illegal, Bret. Just because it was consumed in our house—”

“A private residence!” I shouted back.

“—doesn’t make it any more legal.”

“Well, it isn’t technically legal, but . . .”

She waited for me to finish the sentence. I chose not to.

“I didn’t do drugs last night, Jayne.”

“That’s a lie.” She broke down. “You’re lying to me, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

With great effort the ghost stood up and shuffled over to her. The ghost wrapped itself around her, and she let him. She was shaking, and between sobs was the trembling intake of uneven breaths.

“How about you believe me . . . and . . .”—I turned her around so we were facing each other and I stared at her pleadingly, my eyes sad and wistful—“just love me?”

There was a new silence in the kitchen. I glanced over at the dog as Jayne collapsed into me, hugging so tightly that I started to wheeze. Victor was staring at me. You bore me, it was thinking. You are a jerk, it was thinking. I glared until he lost interest, licked a paw and then turned away. He couldn’t stand the sight of me, and he knew that I knew it. And he liked that I knew. That’s what drove me crazy: the dog knew that I knew it hated me and liked it. When I looked back at Jayne, she was staring at me so hopefully that her expression almost bordered on madness and I wanted to let go first.

But then Jayne gently pushed me away and simply said, “We’re having dinner at the Allens’ on Sunday. I couldn’t get out of it.”

“That sounds like . . .” I gulped. “Fun. Really fun.”

After she left to get Robby my stomach erupted, and leaving my cocktail on the table I hurriedly ran into the closest bathroom and sat down on the toilet just as an explosive torrent of diarrhea hit the water. Gasping, I reached for the latest issue of Wallpaper and flipped through it while my stomach kept emptying itself. I stared at another sunken tub and then out the small bay window as Elsinore Lane began waking up, and I saw the boy who spent the night walk from our house—the pumpkins still dotting the path—to the house next to ours and realized it was Ashton Allen; he was momentarily so close to the window that I could read his T-shirt—KEEP STARING, I MIGHT DO A TRICK—and then a sparrow landed on the sill and I turned away. The bathroom was soon enveloped in an odor particular to the remnants of a drunken night—the smell of excrement and alcohol commingled in a rancid stench that forced me out of the room almost as quickly as I had rushed in.

When I hobbled back into the kitchen, Jayne was pouring hot water into ceramic bowls and Robby was standing at the table drinking from my glass, grimacing. “Mom, this orange juice tastes funny. Is there any Tropicana left?”

“Robby, hon, I don’t want you drinking Tropicana,” Jayne said. “Marta squeezed some fresh juice for you. It’s by the sink.”

“This is fresh juice,” he muttered.

I stood in the doorway until Robby put the glass down and moved over to the juicer. (Nonfresh juice was largely prohibited because it caused cavities and obesity.) As I made my way to the table Robby turned around and saw me and did the subtlest double take before casually moving over to his backpack, which he was in the process of rearranging. Robby still didn’t seem used to my presence, but I wasn’t used to his either. We were both scared and wary of each other, and I was the one who needed to make a connection, to mend us, but his reluctance—as loud and insistent as an anthem—seemed impossible to overcome. There was no way of winning him over. I had failed him utterly—his downward gaze whenever I entered a room reminded me of this. And yet I still resented the fact that he—not myself—lacked the courage to make that first move.

“Hey, kid,” I said, sitting down at the table and chugging the rest of the screwdriver. It went down sourly, and I shut my eyes until the alcohol’s warmth began coursing through my system, causing my eyelids to flutter open. Robby mumbled a response. It was enough. School lasted from 8:15 until 3:15, and various after-school programs often pushed their return to 5:15, so there was usually nine hours of peace. But then I realized tonight was trick-or-treating and that I had to be at the college by noon (a counseling day, but mostly an excuse to see Aimee Light) and then I had an appointment with my shrink, Dr. Kim, and somewhere during this ordeal a lot of Xanax was going to have to be ingested and a nap taken. The housekeeper walked in and said something to Jayne in Spanish. They had a little conversation I couldn’t possibly follow until Rosa nodded intensely and moved out of the kitchen.

Since it was Halloween and a free-dress day at school Robby was wearing a WHAT? ME WORRY? T-shirt and oversized cargo pants—his clothes were always too big, too baggy, and everything had a label on it. A pair of Rollerblades were slung over his shoulder, and he let Jayne know that he’d just downloaded something from a Buffy the Vampire Slayer Web site and he was wondering how to fit a soccer ball into a new Targus RakGear Kickflip backpack, which weighed an “acceptable” twenty-five pounds (the Nike BioKNX had caused “spinal aching” according to his physician). He was holding a magazine, GamePro, to read on the car ride to school, and was anxious about an oral quiz on the formation of waterfalls. As I flipped through the papers Robby complained about noises last night, after the party was over. But he was unsure where they were coming from—the attic, or maybe on the roof, but also definitely on the sides of the house. There were scratching sounds at his door, he said, and when he woke up this morning, his furniture had been rearranged, and he found three or four deep grooves on the bottom of his door (which he insisted he didn’t make), and when he touched the doorknob it was wet. “Someone slimed it,” he said, shuddering.

I looked up from the paper and saw Jayne glaring at me while she asked, “What do you mean, hon?”

But, as usual when Robby was asked for specifics, he drooped and went silent.

I reanimated myself and tried to think of a question to ask him that would not require any elaboration, but then Sarah and Marta wandered in. Sarah was wearing a frilly T-shirt with the word lingerie in spangly silver letters. And then Victor bounded up to her, relieved and wiggling with happiness, before moving to the glass wall and staring intently into the backyard while barking like mad, causing my head to explode.

“Sit, Victor! Heel. Heel!” I demanded. “Jeez, can’t somebody get that dog to mellow out?” I turned back to the papers but Sarah was leaning into me with the Christmas list she’d already made, a Pokémon stadium leading a long computerized column. I reminded her it was October (this didn’t register) and then started going down the list with her until I looked to Jayne for help, but she was on her cell phone and bagging the kids’ lunches (the sugar-free graham crackers, the bottles of Diet Snapple) while saying things like “No—the kids are booked solid.”

Sarah kept explaining to me what each item on the list meant to her until I casually interrupted. “How’s everything with Terby, honey?” I asked. (Had I really been so afraid of it last night? Everything seemed different now in the light of morning: bright, clean, sane.)

“Terby’s okay” is all she said, but it worked: she forgot about the Christmas list and moved over to finger paintings she’d made yesterday for show-and-tell and carefully started sliding them into a manila envelope. Robby was checking his palm pilot while swaggering around the kitchen—his way of acting tough.

I suddenly noticed a paperback of Lord of the Flies in the mass of school gear on the table and picked it up. Opening the cover I was shocked to find Sarah’s name handwritten on the first page. “Wait a minute,” I said. “I can’t believe they’re letting first-graders read this.”

Everyone—except Sarah—glanced at me.

“I don’t even understand this book now. Jeez, why don’t they just assign her Moby Dick? This is absurd. This is crazy!” I was waving the book at Jayne when I noticed Sarah staring at me with a confused expression. I bent toward her and said, in a calm, soothing, rational tone, “Honey, you don’t need to read this.”

Sarah glanced fearfully at her mother. “It’s on our reading list,” she said quietly.

Exasperated, I asked Robby to show me his curriculum.

“My what?” he asked, standing rigidly still.

“Your schedule, dummy.”

Robby tentatively rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a crumpled computerized list: Art History, Algebra 1, Science, Basic Probability, Phys Ed, Statistics, Nonfiction Literature, Social Studies and Conversational Spanish. I stared at the list dully until he sat down at the table and I handed it back to him. “This is insane,” I muttered. “It’s outrageous. Where are we sending them?”

Robby suddenly concentrated on his bowl of muesli—having pushed aside the oatmeal Marta had placed in front of him—and reached for a carton of soy milk. Jayne kept forgetting that Robby couldn’t stand oatmeal, but it was something I always remembered since I couldn’t stand oatmeal either.

He finally shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“The school counselor said that getting a child into an Ivy League school starts in first grade,” Jayne said casually, as if not to alarm the children, who I assumed weren’t listening anyway.

“Actually earlier,” Marta reminded her.

“She’s hyping you, baby,” I sighed. “Don’t play dat game, sistah.”

Robby suddenly giggled, much to my gratification.

Jayne scowled. “Don’t use fake rap talk around the kids. I hate it.”

“And I hated that counselor,” I said. “You know why? Because she was feeding off your anxiety, baby.”

“Let’s not have this conversation now,” Jayne said, washing her hands in the sink, her neck muscles taut. “Are we almost ready, kids?”

I was still dumbfounded by Robby’s schedule and I wanted to say something consoling to him but he had finished the muesli and was reloading his backpack. He studied a computer game, Quake III, as if he didn’t know what to do with it, then pulled out his cell phone to make sure it was charged.

“Hey, buddy, what are you doing taking a cell phone to school?”

He looked nervously over at Jayne, who was now drying her hands with a paper towel. “All the kids have them,” she said simply.

“It’s abnormal for eleven-year-olds to have cell phones, Jayne,” I said, hitting what I hoped was the right tone of indignation.

“You. Are. Wearing. A. Sheet,” Jayne said—this was her response.

Robby seemed lost, as if he didn’t know what to do.

Finally, thankfully, Sarah broke the silence.

“Mommy, I brushed my teeth,” she offered.

“But don’t you brush after eating, honey?” Jayne asked, pointing out something to Marta in her datebook concerning the trip to Toronto next week for the reshoots. “I think you should brush your teeth after breakfast.”

“I brushed my teeth,” Sarah said again, and when that got no response from Jayne she turned to me. “Bret, I know the alphabet.”

“Well, you should by now,” I said encouragingly but also confused about why a girl so proud of having learned the alphabet should be reading Lord of the Flies.

“I know the alphabet,” she stated proudly. “A B C D E F—”

“Honey, Bret has a big headache. I’m gonna take your word on this one.”

“—G H I J K L M N—”

“You can identify the sounds letters make. Sweetie, that’s really excellent. Jayne?”

“—O P Q R S T U V—”

“Jayne, would you please give her a sugar-free doughnut or something?” I touched my head to indicate migraine approaching. “Really.”

“And I know what a rhombus is!” Sarah shouted gleefully.

“Fabulous.”

“And a hexagon!”

“Okay, but take pity on me just now, munchkin.”

“And a trapezoid!”

“Honey, Daddy’s grouchy and sleepy and about to throw up so couldn’t you keep it down a little?”

She immediately turned to Jayne. “Mommy, I’m keeping a journal,” she announced. “And Terby’s helping me with it.”

“Maybe Bret can get a little help from Terby with his writing,” Jayne offered caustically, without looking up from the notes she was going over with Marta.

“Baby, my novel is so happening right now I can hardly believe it myself,” I droned, flipping through USA Today’s Sports section.

“But Terby’s sad,” Sarah said, pouting.

“Why? I thought he was doing okay,” I said, partially disinterested. “Is he having a bad fur day?”

“He says you don’t like him,” Sarah said, twisting in her chair. “He says you never play with him.”

“The thing is lying. I play with him constantly. While you’re at school. In fact, Terby beat me at backgammon on Tuesday. Don’t believe a thing Terby—”

“Bret,” Jayne snapped. “Stop it.”

“Mommy?” Sarah asked. “Does Daddy have a cold?”

“Honey, your daddy’s contaminated right now,” Jayne said, placing a bowl of oatmeal topped with raspberries in front of Sarah.

“And Mommy’s all bitched up,” I muttered.

Jayne either didn’t hear me or pretended to ignore that one. “And we’ll all be late if we don’t hurry.”

And then I zoned out on everything surrounding me until I heard Jayne say, “You’ll have to ask your dad.”

When I snapped out of it, Robby was looking at me anxiously.

“Forget it,” he mumbled.

“No, come on,” I said. “Ask me what?”

His face was so troubled that I wished I knew the question myself and could simply answer it without Robby having to ask it.

Dreading this, he asked, “Can we get The Matrix DVD?”

Quickly, I thought this through. He braced himself for my answer.

“But we already have it on video,” I said slowly as if answering a trick question.

“Yeah, but the DVD has extras and—”

“Of what? Keanu—”

“Bret,” Jayne said loudly, interrupting her discussion of Sarah’s ballet schedule with Marta, then turned on Robby. “Why are you wearing that T-shirt?” she suddenly asked him.

“What’s wrong with it?” I interjected, trying to save myself.

“We can’t wear costumes to school, remember?” Robby darkly muttered. “Remember?” he asked accusingly.

He was referring to the e-mail sent out to parents about Halloween this year. Even though there would be parties in the afternoon, the school was warning against costumes, preferring that the kids come as “themselves.” The school originally had okayed “appropriate” costumes while actively discouraging anything inappropriate (nothing “violent” or “scary” or “with weapons”), but predictably, the children, even on all their meds, started to freak out en masse, so costumes were simply banned (exhausted parents pleaded for a compromise—“Nominally frightening?”—which was rejected). This disappointed Robby gravely, so while Jayne was inspecting glasses that had just been in the dishwasher, I tried to console my son. In a fatherly way I assured him that going without a costume was probably in everyone’s best interest, offering as a cautionary tale my own seventh grade Halloween when I’d gone to school as the Bloody Vampire and wasn’t allowed to march in the annual parade for the elementary students because I had slathered so much Fun Blood on my mouth and chin and cheeks that it was certain to frighten them, according to the principal. This had been so deeply embarrassing—a pivotal moment, really—that it was the last time I ever wore a costume. It was that shameful. The memory of sitting alone on a bench while my classmates marched in front of the delighted elementary students still burned. I suddenly expected Robby to find me far more interesting than he previously had.

An awkward silence filled the kitchen. People had been listening to my story. Jayne was holding a cracked margarita glass and staring at me strangely. I slowly noticed that everyone else—Sarah, Marta, Robby, even Victor—was also staring at me strangely.

Robby, looking completely confused, finally spoke, quietly and with as much dignity as he could muster. “Who said I wanted to go as . . . the Bloody Vampire?” He paused. “I wanted to go as Eminem, Bret.”

“Just because your father was a total freak at your age doesn’t mean you are, honey,” Jayne said.

“The Bloody Vampire?” Robby stared at me, aghast.

I looked helplessly at Jayne, whose face now suddenly relaxed. She studied me for a longish moment, trying to figure something out.

“Yeah?” I asked her, as I slowly handed Robby a fifty-dollar bill.

“I just realized something I wanted to ask you,” Jayne said.

“What is it?”

The dog became interested in my answer. It gave me a quick sideways glance.

“Have you ever had to empty a dishwasher? I’m just curious.”

“Um, Jayne . . .” The dishwasher line sounded like another in a long series of loaded insinuations. The strange guilt I felt—the sense of having done something wrong—never left me in that house. I tried to appear quiet and thoughtful, instead of my only other option: fainting in pain and defeat.

“Well?” She was still waiting for an answer.

“No, but I am seeing Dr. Kim today.”

I imagined relief filling the kitchen in a great oceanic wave. I wanted badly for breakfast to end—I closed my eyes and wished it—and for everyone in the house to slip quietly away. And then they did.