I hate climbing the stairs with her. It makes me feel like I’m being punished. I like it better when we talk in the kitchen and I’m left to go upstairs on my own and get on with things. It’s excruciating, having to walk up three stories at her old lady pace, nothing to say to each other, up to my too-new room in the attic. Plus I’m still pissed off about the bee. You can’t kill bees anymore. Everybody knows that. I keep telling myself that one isn’t going to make a difference, but instead of making me calmer, I think it’s making me more angry—they’re fucking endangered, for Christ’s sake! The entire goddamn food chain’s going to collapse but what does that matter to Grandma Moneybags?

Mrs. Tyburn pulls out an archive box full of film reels, all labeled with strips out of one of those stupid label-making machines, and hands me one marked July 1975—Our New Yacht, Nantucket. I thread the leader of the reel into position and guide it through to the take-up reel of her old 8 mm projector, tug down the screen, and pull the blackout curtain.

The first frames are black with dots and blotches. They’re always my favorite part, even though they only last a few seconds. Then the scene opens to what looks like a perfect day. The fact that it’s in black and white makes it seem even more pristine. The shot pans down from a tasteful scattering of clouds to the masts and sails in a marina. The kids dart into the frame, running but not racing each other. Mr. and Mrs. Tyburn stroll into frame a few beats later. Mrs. Tyburn is a knockout, totally cute in a floral shorts set, full makeup, and a sun hat that blows a little in the wind, forcing her to pose with her hand behind her head. Her breasts barely make an impression. I’m taking notes.

The yacht is smaller than I thought it would be, but I guess my only frame of reference for yachts is rap videos. This one is red and white (the red seems red; it’s weird how even in black and white you can kind of tell).

It’s called Jenny. The name was Mr. Tyburn’s idea. Apparently, his mother, Jean, was nicknamed Jenny. That man’s got a nose that grows. That’s what my mother would have said about Mr. Tyburn.

As the family boards the yacht, the attic lights come on. “You get the drift,” says Mrs. Tyburn. “We went out on the boat a few times that summer. The name will have to change, and a few minor adjustments will be necessary elsewhere. You do understand?”

“What do you want the boat to be called?”