I nod, Lauren smiles, Craig gives a thumbs-up, meaning: As far as we are aware, that is correct.

“Who were your mothers?” he says. “Have you ever considered that?”

We have. We have even quietly spoken of it. One of our earliest shared memories is of being told, by Jean, that our respective mothers gave birth to us here but then had to go, as our moms had other babies to give birth to, elsewhere. Our moms were quite busy giving birth to Speakers all over the land, Jean explained, doing a real service for the world by filling it with advanced-level Speakers. Because of our moms, many people were going to experience so much pleasure, in Listening Rooms from coast to coast.

It was a long explanation, so long it had to be read from a laminated card, and something about having to read it put Jean in a soft mood, and she never did get to the end of it but soon dropped the card in the trash and used her Reaching Rod to offer us a series of sweet treats, which is when we first started to feel that we were really going to like it here.

And we have. We really have liked it here.

“But where were you before you came here?” says adult son Mike.

“I’m going to go get your dad,” Jean says.

“Go ahead,” says adult son Mike. “He knows where I stand on this crap.”

Jean goes.

“Heaven,” I say.

“Heaven, okay,” says adult son Mike. “Let’s go with that. Then what? You dropped, fully grown, out of your mom’s vagina? Moms’ vaginas? Think about it, guys. How big a woman would these ladies have to be for that shit to work out? I mean, do the math.”

Mr. U. comes in.

“I thought we’d agreed that this wasn’t happening anymore,” he says.

“Fine, Dad,” adult son Mike says. “Have fun with your ‘show.’ Have fun choreographing your reactionary History Channel bullshit. Which, by the way, seems to be badly neglecting the Indigenous perspective. But don’t blame me. Don’t blame me for any of it.”

“Michael, Mikey,” Mr. U. says. “You’re misunderstanding. It was a signal event in history. The American Iliad, if you will.”

“Ugh, Jesus!” shouts adult son Mike.

Stomping out, he flicks the lights off, on, off.

Mr. U. follows adult son Mike out.

Jean goes over, flicks the lights back on.

“Forget him, guys,” she says to us. “Just do your thing. Have fun.”

We plan to. We plan to just do our thing, have fun.

In an hour or so, Mr. U. returns, bearing history books. Sitting cross-legged near the Mod, he laboriously hand-inputs much new material intended to address adult son Mike’s critique re the paucity of Indigenous accounts. Once that is done, we must, of course, because we are pros, Rehearse, especially the new bits, so that all will be seamless, which takes the better part of the afternoon.

· · ·

Company arrives at seven.