“Yes, maybe; and he had this running joke about his drinking, remember? Always going on about his drunken binges. And so one night one of the guests was reminiscing about a party they’d been to and Dean Martin asked, ‘Did I have a good time?’”

Barbara smiled faintly, looking not all that amused.

“Did he have a good time,” Liam said. “Ha!”

“What’s your point, Liam?”

“I might ask you the same question,” he told her.

“You might ask what my point is?”

“I might ask if I’d had a good time.”

Barbara wrinkled her forehead.

“Oh,” Liam said, “never mind.”

It was a relief to give up, finally. It was a relief to turn away from her and see Kitty approaching-matter-of-fact, straightforward Kitty yanking open the screen door and saying, “Did you decide?”

“We were just discussing Dean Martin,” Barbara told her drily.

“Who? But what about me?”

“Well,” Barbara said. She reflected a moment. Then she said-out of the blue, it seemed to Liam-“I suppose we could give it a try.”

Kitty said, “Hot dog!”

“Just conditionally, understand.”

“I understand!”

“But if I hear one word about your bending the rules, missy, or giving your father any trouble-”

“I know, I know,” Kitty said, and she was off, racing toward the front stairs, presumably to go pack.

Barbara looked over at Liam. “I meant that about the rules,” she told him.

He nodded. Privately, though, he felt blindsided. What had he gotten himself into?

As if she guessed his thoughts, Barbara smiled and gave him a tap on the wrist. “Come and have some lunch,” she said.

He forgot to remind her that he wasn’t hungry. He followed her back through the kitchen and out the screen door.

On the patio, Jonah had abandoned his chalk and was sitting on the very edge of the chair next to Xanthe. “We saw an animal!” he shouted. “You’ve got an animal in your backyard, Gran! It was either a fox or an anteater.”

“Oh, I hope it was an anteater,” Barbara said. “I haven’t had one of those before.”

“It had a long nose or a long tail, one or the other. Where’s Kitty? I have to tell Kitty.”

“She’ll be here in a minute, sweets. She’s packing.”

Liam pulled up a chair and sat down next to Jonah. He was directly opposite Xanthe, but Xanthe refused to look at him. “Packing for what?” she asked Barbara.

“She’s going to stay on with your dad.”

“Huh?”

“She’s staying on during the school year. If she behaves herself.”

Then Xanthe did look at him, openmouthed. She turned back to Barbara and said, “She’s going to live with him?”

“Why, yes,” Barbara said, but now she sounded doubtful.

“I cannot believe this,” Xanthe told Liam.

Liam said, “Pardon?”

“First you let her stay there all summer. You say, ‘Okay, Kitty, whatever you like. By all means, Kitty. Whatever your heart desires, Kitty.’ Little Miss Princess Kitty lolling about with her deadbeat boyfriend.”

Liam said, “Yes? And?”

“When you never let me live with you!” Xanthe cried. “And I was just a child! And you were all I had! I was way younger than Kitty is when you and Barbara split up. You left me behind with a woman who wasn’t even related to me and off you went, forever!”

Liam felt stunned.

He said, “Is that what you’ve been mad about?”

Barbara said, “Oh, Xanthe, I feel related. I’ve always felt you were truly my daughter; you must know I have.”

“This is not about you, Barbara,” Xanthe said in a gentler tone. “I have no quarrel with you. But him-” And she turned back to Liam.

“I thought I was doing you a favor,” Liam said.

“Yeah, right.”

“You had your two little sisters there, and you seemed so happy, finally, and Barbara was so loving and openhearted and warm.”

“Why, thank you, Liam,” Barbara said.

He stopped in mid-breath and glanced at her. She was looking almost bashful. But he needed to concentrate on Xanthe, and so he turned back. He said, “Epictetus says-”

“Oh, not him again!” Xanthe exploded. “Damn Epictetus!” And she jumped up and began to stack her dishes.

Liam gave her a moment, and then he started over. In his quietest and most pacifying voice, he said, “Epictetus says that everything has two handles, one by which it can be borne and one by which it cannot. If your brother sins against you, he says, don’t take hold of it by the wrong he did you but by the fact that he’s your brother. That’s how it can be borne.”

Xanthe made a tssh! sound and clanked her bread plate onto her dinner plate.

“I’m trying to say I’m sorry, Xanthe,” he said. “I didn’t know. I honestly didn’t realize. Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

She snatched up her silverware.

In desperation, he pushed his chair back and slid forward until he was kneeling on the patio. He could feel the unevenness of the flagstones through the fabric of his trousers; he could feel the ache of misery filling his throat. Xanthe froze, gaping at him, still holding her dishes. “Please,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him. “I can’t bear to know I made such a bad mistake. I can’t endure it. I’m begging you, Xanthe.”

Jonah said, “Poppy?”

Xanthe set her dishes down and took a grip on his arm. “For God’s sake, Dad, get up,” she told him. “What on earth! You’re making a fool of yourself!” She pulled him to a standing position and then bent to brush off his knees.

“Goodness, Liam,” Barbara said mildly. She plucked a leaf from his trousers. All around him, it seemed, there was a flutter of pats and murmurs. “What will you think of next?” Xanthe asked, but she was guiding him back to his chair as she spoke.

He sank onto the chair feeling exhausted, like a child who had been through a crying spell. He looked sideways at Jonah and forced himself to smile.

“So,” he said. “Shall we have some lunch?”

Wide-eyed, Jonah pushed a bowl of potato salad a few inches closer to him.

“Thank you,” Liam said. He ladled a spoonful onto his plate.

The two women returned to their seats, but then they just sat watching him.

“What?” Liam asked them.

They didn’t answer.

He chose a deviled egg from a platter and set it on his plate. He reached for a tuna-salad sandwich that had been cut in a dainty triangle.

It occurred to him that here he was, finally, dining with a couple of Picnic Ladies after all.

13

At the window end of the Threes’ room stood a long wooden table that was known as the Texture Table. Every morning as the children came in they headed for the Texture Table first to see what activity had been set up for them. Sometimes they found dishpans of water, and cups and pitchers for pouring. Sometimes they found sand. Often there were canisters of modeling clay, or bins of dried beans and pasta, or plastic shapes, or fingerpaints. Fingerpaints were Liam’s least favorite. He was supposed to monitor the Texture Table while Miss Sarah peeled the newer arrivals away from their mothers, and on fingerpaint days he spent all his time stopping the little boys from laying tiny red and blue handprints up and down the little girls’ dresses, and across the seats of the miniature chairs, and in each other’s hair. It was Liam’s opinion that fingerpaints ought to be abolished.

Miss Sarah, however, believed that fingerpainting expanded the soul. Miss Sarah was full of such theories. (Overly full, if you asked Liam.) She seemed about twelve years old, and she wore jeans to work, and her round, freckled face generally bore a smudge of ink or chalk or felt-tip pen. She told Liam that fingerpainting was especially beneficial for children who were too fastidious-too “uptight,” as she put it. Most of the uptight ones were girls. They would tug at Liam’s sleeve with tears in their eyes, with looks of outrage on their faces, and say, “Zayda, see what Joshua did?”