“Goddamn fucking phone!” Ruth says, pushing her chair back so hard that it nearly tips over as she stands. It balances for what seems to Wilson long, long seconds on its back legs before finally coming to rest on all four. He lets out his breath. Ruth has disappeared into the kitchen. The door flaps back and forth behind her.

“Stick,” Jimmy says, arranging his silverware on the side of his plate. He has finished eating. “Got to learn on stick.”

Wilson blinks at Jimmy. “I’ll keep that in mind, Jimmy,” he says.

But Jimmy is looking at Isabelle. “I’ll take you driving if your folks won’t,” he goes on.

“We’ll take her when we think it’s the right time, Jimmy,” Wilson says. He turns to his daughter. “Isabelle, do you want to start to clear?”

Isabelle’s mouth goes tight with displeasure. She gives her father a steely look.

“Right now,” Wilson says. Isabelle’s nostrils flare once, and then she stands. She has lifted her plate and is about to clear Wilson’s when Ruth emerges from the kitchen.

“Are we clearing already?”

“We were starting to,” Wilson says. “You hadn’t finished?”

“Does it look like I’ve finished?”

“I’m sorry,” Wilson says. “I didn’t realize. Isabelle, why don’t you set your plate back down for another minute—”

“No,” Ruth says. “No, just go ahead and clear.”

“You keep in mind what I said.” Jimmy says this in a low voice to Isabelle as she goes to take his plate.

“Jimmy,” Wilson says, just as the phone rings again.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Ruth cries.

“Just let it ring.”

They all look at Jimmy. “Let it ring,” he says again. Ruth sits down. Isabelle stands above her uncle, a plate in either hand. The phone rings.

“I’ll help you clear, Belle,” Wilson says, standing himself now. He gathers the dish of peas from the table. The phone rings again, and then the answering machine clicks on, and even in the dining room, they can hear the sound of Isabelle’s voice coming from the kitchen, telling whoever is calling that no one is home.

III

She has erased so thoroughly that the paper is beginning to wear away, but she wants to be sure to undo this curse she’s set. She cannot get the image out of her head: her uncle’s hands on her father’s shoulders, bulbs dropping from the tree as her father falls against it, Maggie barking up at them, her mother pointing over Isabelle’s shoulder through the doorway and shouting at her Go back to bed! She hadn’t dared disobey.