I tiptoe to the bathroom, praying he’ll leave in the next few minutes. But when I cross the living room, he’s still at the dining-room table, coffee in his Eric Lindros mug, nose buried in the classified section of the paper. Cassie’s cereal bowl has a small pool of milk in it, sprinkled with a few Cheerios. She’s blowing on them; they’re floating, like those rings you toss to people who are drowning.

She reaches for the milk carton, not watching what she’s doing. Over it goes. Milk streams across the plastic tablecloth toward Floyd’s newspaper.

Frozen to the floor, I let out a croak of dismay. The milk soaks into the bottom of the paper. Floyd lowers the paper, sees the milk carton, then sees me. He surges to his feet. “Look what she’s done!”

Cassie jams herself against the rungs of her chair, white-faced.

From the pantry, Opal calls, “Want more coffee, Floyd?”

“No thanks,” he says, “I’d better be off.”

He pushes his chair away from the table. “She’s ruined my paper, kiddo. It’s your job to look after her, stop her from being so clumsy.”

She’s four years old. You scared her.

He takes a step toward me. “Wipe that look off your face.”

“Sorry, sorry ... I’ll clean up the mess.”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Years ago I used to say that to Floyd, thinking it would help.

“Get yourself out of bed in the mornings,” he says, “show some initiative.”

I drop my eyes. The One and Only Chinless MacAvoy, Live at a Theater Near You. Chinless Wonder is one of Floyd’s favorite taunts. Wimp, loser, dummy, gutless, useless, clueless—I’ve heard ’em all.

“By the way,” he says, “the bathroom floor needs wiping.”

He heads for the pantry. He always kisses Opal good-bye whether he’s leaving for five minutes or five days.

Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to hightail back upstairs and wipe the floor. The fear on Cassie’s face is what stops me. That, and knowing it’s my fault. She isn’t normally clumsy. She spilled the milk because she’s tired, and the reason she’s tired is because I’ve had her out late two days in a row.

“I’ll clean up the mess, Cassie,” I say, patting her shoulder. “He’ll be gone to work soon.”

I mop up the milk and rinse the cloth, leaving the tap running so I won’t hear the sounds of the clinch in the pantry. Sex is how Opal keeps Floyd in line, that’s another of my theories. Although, believe me, I don’t spend much time thinking about it.