“Grief makes people do crazy things. All I’m saying is if anyone reaches out to you about it, we need to handle communication as a family. This affects all of us.”

“Fine,” he mumbles.

“This is serious, Jonah.”

“I said fine. Do you think I want to talk to them? I never want to talk about it again.”

At least we have this in common. I eyeball the stairs Jonah is blocking, and as though guessing the password to a kids’ game, I say, “I know. I’m so sorry, Son.”

He nods and grants passage, leading us back down the spiral staircase. I close the trapdoor behind me without looking back. The place held no power for so long. Now it hovers over us. Its dome compresses our space, invades our days and nights, hosts bad choices decaying above us while we sleep. I suppose now I’m going to have to renovate or destroy. I lock the door, slip the key into my pocket, and slap my son on the back as we part ways.

28.

Sunday morning, a good nine hours before the party, and Elizabeth is stressing about clutter and supplies. She’s dusting neglected corners of our house—gaps in bookshelves, backs of speakers—and pitching old candles burned down to the quick, replacing them with new ones, lighting wicks.

Jonah has risen to meet her frenzy. At ten in the morning, he laces his shoes and recites, “Fancy paper plates, fancy paper napkins, vegetable platter—what else?”

Elizabeth points to a list Scotch-taped to the door. “Get some cash from your father.”

“You two are missing the point,” I tell them. “This is supposed to relieve our stress. This is something people want to do for us. Besides, they won’t be here until six. Relax.”

Elizabeth shakes her head, but Jonah says, “Do you know how many times Bonnie McAlister has called this week? She’s basically stalking Elizabeth with all these great ideas about catering and charity. It hasn’t been relaxing, and we need toilet paper.”

Elizabeth says, “For God’s sake, Robert, that ladder is still out there.” She points to the side yard, where I left the ladder at the police officers’ request, and then I’d forgotten, and now it’s probably killing the grass.

I say, “I’ll put it away.”

“You will,” Elizabeth says. She tells Jonah to hurry back so he can clean the pool. He doesn’t argue or give attitude. Their disdain for this party—a nice gesture they refuse to see clearly—has brought them together in some sort of trauma bond.

Frank and Bonnie arrive exactly half an hour early, bearing a platter of bruschetta and a bottle of cabernet. Jonah’s still in the shower. The pool hasn’t been cleaned.

“Bonnie.” Elizabeth takes the tray. “Frank. You really didn’t have to do this.”