I can finally settle on one white couch as my parents appear decorous on its mate. Drinks in hand, ice creating its own civil music against leaded crystal, we’re safer for these; we can now properly face each other. “Well, well,” Dad ventures, hearty. “We got us at least one son home for Christmas.”

Thanks a lot.

“Cheers,” I lie. We sip, pretending—with hands fused around clinking cylinders—that we three can take the booze or leave it. Right.

“So,” Mom says, smiling. “You’re really here.”

“No doubt about it. You both look great.” The visit has commenced. The box step, three-quarter waltz time. No fast moves or sudden stops.

They do look great. It is commonly considered desirable that a person’s children be good looking. But rarely are you told how helpful handsomeness is in parents. My own folks’ longtime tidiness and glamour have made their countervailing tensions somewhat easier to bear. Maybe I was drawn to Robert and Angie for a simple reason: My parents are better looking than I. Odd, but that’s actually been quite disappointing for my folks and me. At least I’m smarter. But, of course, this has also been disappointing for me; since it’s invisible to them. Except during Jeopardy. Which should come on in, what? Twenty-one minutes, please? When that game show’s rolling, I alone answer. Depending on the category, I get about 83 percent. And my parents, having paid for my education, gloat like couched Boscos fed steady spaniels.

“Darlin’?” Mother starts. “We feel you do look a bit overworked. The color is not good. You push yourself so, like he did, really.” She swings her white head toward a neutral man beside her. “Why not take it easier? Come enjoy our sun more? There’s Robert, of course. We know you’ll want to do right by him. But mightn’t you be struggling too hard with all those other poor sick fellows? Aren’t you helping lots of people you barely knew socially? Weighing on you, are they? Why not cut back some?”

I shrug. I fight down an emotion. “Number One,” Father says, cryptic, but we know he means look out for …

(Between these visits, I recall my folks’ charm. It’s their uncomprehending Republican opacity, I block. —Just as the pain of childbirth is programmed to be forgotten between required screaming bouts of ouchly recall.)

Her rushing to this subject, their wordless agreement about my evil looks, it feels like yet another betrayal. I’m too tired to protect myself. I’ve already given everything away.

I sigh. I only seem to sigh like this around my folks. I take two longish bourbon swallows. Dusk is making outlines of the royal palms across my parents’ lake. They say they want me to try their clubhouse’s new Olympic pool tomorrow; I fear they’ll see my knife scar.

“So”—it’s Dad—“you writing a lot, I guess.”