“You’re distressing Mother,” June says to his brothers. He’s the oldest, but he’s been away so much. It’s Edwin’s house and he’s used to being the oldest, Rosalie clearly not counting. John is the only son here with no standing beyond the power of his conviction.

“I so love having you all visit,” Mother says, her voice trembling, her eyes red. Her gray hair hasn’t been done up yet this morning. She looks disheveled, an elderly waif. “We’ve had such a lovely time.”

That should have been enough to stop them, but Edwin and John don’t even seem to notice. They’ve risen from their chairs and stand, staring each other down. John is still holding his fork. He points to Edwin with it. The tines circle menacingly in his hand. “ ‘Tis the time’s plague when madmen lead the blind,’ ” he says.

“ ‘The fool doth think he is wise,’ ” Edwin answers.

Edwin’s never been a brawler. But John’s only barely able to use his right arm. Asia can’t guess how this will end. However it does, it won’t be good. She is a mother of three. Breaking up fights is practically her profession.

She moves into the space between her brothers, forcing them apart. There is a momentary tableau. She sees the stubble on Edwin’s chin, the shadows under John’s eyes. She smells the stale smell of sickness still on John’s breath. Then John drops his fork onto the table, where it hits his plate with a loud crack and bounces onto the floor. He leaves the room.

Asia wonders what just happened. Surely John would never have stabbed Edwin. Suddenly her intervention seems unnecessary and she wishes she hadn’t done it. It’s almost as if she doesn’t trust her brothers. Everyone sits back down and pretends to go on eating. No one speaks.

Whatever pretense of peace was achieved proves temporary. Later that morning, the quarrel starts again. Asia hears it, the voices, not the words, rising from the parlor. By the time she’s downstairs, Edwin has ordered John from the house. In an instant, John’s packing his bag. In an instant, he’s out the door.

June runs after him. Asia watches from the window. They’re three houses down, talking together, June’s arms in constant motion, John hunched stubbornly into himself.

The weather is changing, the air dry, but crackling with electricity. Asia feels her hair lifting, on her arms and neck. In the distance, lightning stretches in large white sheets. She can smell a storm coming. There’s a yowling right under the window, that strange unearthly call of a cat in heat. It feels all portentous to Asia, but of what she couldn’t say.

John walks away. June comes back to the house.