“I would like a conversation. Is that a crime?” He raised his eyebrows, so large and glossy, which seemed to live and move separately from him. Ray was in a foul mood, Frances could tell, and during such spells, he was far from accommodating.

They ate some more in silence, and after a time, Ray said, “That fog put me in mind of Austerlitz.”

Kenny’s face slowly grew pink-red. “You were never at Austerlitz!”

“The fog, along with cannon fire—ha!—sent those autocrats running for their lives,” he said. Ray calmly looked at Kenny, who now appeared furious. “Of course I wasn’t at Austerlitz. How could I have been? But can’t I speculate—for fun? See, Napoleon knew which men to value. He preferred to employ experienced soldiers over the young, inexperienced ones. The failure to do that,” Ray said, casting his large eyes, sometimes—now—rather dreamy-looking, to the pinkish living-room wall, “is the absurd flaw of the modern army.”

“I think someone better start listening around here,” Kenny said vaguely.

“Strong, loyal corpsmen,” said Ray, munching, glancing at Kenny as if to provoke fury. “Much better than an overtrained army of youths. The Prussians grew overconfident and idle—we talked about that once, Kenny, remember? The men sat around and overpolished their rifles so much that when they picked them up, the guns exploded in their hands! What is it?” he asked his brother.

Kenny uttered a frustrated, moisture-filled vowel. “Why are you this way? You never listen! You dominate. Can’t you see that?”

“Kenny, what’s wrong with having a conversation after supper?”

“This isn’t a conversation!”

“Oh?”

“If I could get you out of my life—”

“If I could get you out of mine!”

The two stared hard at one another, breathing, their four eyes gleaming brown. “But we have to be together,” Ray said then, slowly, evenly, sitting back, “because we’re brothers.”

“Hurry up and eat, dammit,” Frances broke in. She was anxious for them to leave so she and Kenny might meet later. Ray finished his meal, lifting his eyebrows toward her.

* * *

Frances rode the bicycle with difficulty, maneuvering on the path in a wobbly fashion, her face squeezed hard, as though with unrockable thoughts and convictions. Since she had not slept well the past several nights, her bike-riding was sloppy, and she fell; as a consequence, her hand was bloodied by the time she leaned the bicycle against the side of Hal Arn’s motor shop. The night air was dazzlingly cold, and slick, muddy leaves stuck to her hard shoes. A voice remembered from long ago rose in her mind:

“I wouldn’t go into the forest at night, not if I were you. I’d keep well to the path and beware the cunning of the trees. I wouldn’t trust the path, not for a moment, if I were you. Pay heed to this! I once knew a girl who . . .”