“So,” Mother says. “But, darl, do wait, not yet, our favorite news show’ll be on in no time. They catch people doing things. They take the camera right into the stores. Dick, where’s the thing, where’s the remote thingum, sweetie? I know that I, given my sieve of a mind lately, just cain’t keep track of it or much of anything else anymore.” Her Southern belle accent thickens, as she stands, efficient, caught in another geisha act. She gives me a look begging me not to mind how she flatters, trying to save him with one more “poor little me.” Same ole same ole.

After their Eleven O’Clock Roundup, after brushing my teeth, I run into my white-haired father. He is wearing a terry robe, is stooped in the middle of the dark hallway, mumbling, enraged if contained. He has dropped the remote control onto thick white carpeting. In trying to bend and fetch it, he’s lost his breath then his balance. I see that he is pinioned here, one arm to the wall. I recall Robert’s arm, his weight on it, him hunched over her.

“Let me. Please.” I bend, agile. And as Dad straightens, the robe flips open. I, in rising, find myself confronting nudity. His body is still his; everything’s lowered two inches if still right there. But his genitals are precisely my own. Mirrored, I avert my eyes. And he risks falling, to tie the belt.

I let him scramble back toward modesty as I palm the unit his way and hurry by. He flashes me a look, radioactive.

“Sleep well. Merry Christmas, Dad.”

I know to leave him. I’ll let him hobble off at his own rate, gasping, unseen. I’ll wait just inside the guest room. Only if I hear him fall will I run back. (But, wait, surely, the living room’s remote doesn’t work their bedroom’s smaller set?)

He’s like some child too tired to admit the world’s one true fault just now is: he himself feels far too exhausted by it. I know the feeling. A child this worn out, instead of hauling himself to bed, will do literally anything to resist inevitable sleep.

During my good-night peck her way, Mother promises, “Mornings, he’s better.” She’s doing a last science-lab wipedown of their kitchen. I try and give her a hug one beat longer than our usual, one meant to prove I see, I sympathize. But Mom breaks it off and veers away from me toward the dirty glass I left in their sink. I blame her pride. It’s the pride of a person willing to sit three hours allowing another proud person to find an unlost car. Her pride grieves me like some molar hurting because it is, precisely, my own—throbbing.

So let’s see, I got Dad’s big prick and Mom’s huge pride. Thanks a lot. Stand back, world.