Dapper Dan gives us a lift home in a car—a Peugeot, naturally—that’s as well turned out as he is. He holds the front passenger door open for Dad, gestures him inside with a stiff little bow and a flourish of fingers. Iris and I are left to our own devices. From the back seat, Iris taps Dad’s shoulder. “Still got it, Mr. Keogh,” she says, winking at him. Dapper Dan does not speak but seems to know where we are staying. He drives even slower than I do. I’d say Iris could walk faster. He pulls up outside the guesthouse, removes his fedora, and kisses Dad solemnly on both cheeks. He returns the hat to his head and sits back in his seat, ramrod straight with his hands on the wheel. Acknowledging our mercis and bon nuits with the merest nod of his head, he drives away. We wave until the car—eventually—rounds the corner at the top of the road.

Dad holds the garden gate open for us.

“Doesn’t look like Jackie Sprat and her husband are up,” says Iris, looking at the house, shuttered and dark.

I nod, pleased. “They don’t seem like the night owl types.”

“It’d be better if they hated each other,” Iris says.

“What do you mean?”

“At least there’s passion in hate. Nothing passionate about indifference.”

I don’t respond. Something twists inside me as if I’ve eaten a meal that doesn’t agree with me.

But we are not indifferent to each other, Brendan and me. It’s just...well, it’s busy that’s all. There’s always something going on. Lots to do. It’s not always easy to carve time out for your marriage. Is it? It doesn’t mean you’re indifferent.

Does it?

Dad is exhausted all of a sudden. His shuffle-walk is slower than usual. I link one of his arms as we make our way to the front door.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight, Dad?” I ask him.

“Oh, indeed,” he says, which means he has no recollection of the evening. The dancing, Dapper Dan, any of it.

That memory has vanished. It’s like it never happened.

“You were dancing, Dad,” I tell him. “You’re such a good dancer. I never knew that.”

“Your mother taught me how to dance,” he says. Could that be true?

I never saw them dancing, but that doesn’t mean they never danced.

The thought is refreshing. It brings comfort. Just because you are the child of two people doesn’t mean you know everything about them. A part of their life together happened long before I came along.

I lead Dad to his bedroom. He stands beside the bed, looking around the small, spartan room.

“Is this where I live now?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Tonight, you live here.”

He nods, as if he suspected as much in this new, ever-changing landscape of his life.

I knock on the wall that separates our rooms. “That’s my room. I’m your next-door neighbor.”

He smiles.

I hand him his pajamas and he sits on the edge of the bed, begins to pull the bottoms on over his shoes and trousers. I crouch at his feet, catch his hands in mine, place them on his knees. I unlace his shoes, ease them off, then his socks.