She said, “I want to run away,” and I said, “Not without me you’re not,” and she said, “We can’t go anywhere. We live here.”

I said, “I know.”

She went inside to get dinner ready. Barbara followed her.

I put on my trunks, went outside, and swam back and forth in the pool until I could feel the pressure of my goggles forcing my eyeballs out of their sockets. I got out and sat in a chair for a few minutes, leaning hard into the backrest, trying to get the plastic tubes of the chair to explode. Then I just looked out, unwinding, glad to be home. I watched the air above the valley, following a bird as it glided around catching pockets of air down there, as it made itself rigid and floated. I wanted to see these people get in their car and leave. I listened to the two women’s high voices through the window in the kitchen and tried to make out what they were saying. I stood up and popped the pool water out of my ear and went inside.

The father was still not out of his room. It appeared that nothing had happened here today among this group, except worse hives. Phil and Barbara were leaving first thing Tuesday—he had to interview King Hussein in a hospital in New Jersey, and I guess this was their layover. I wondered if Phil had some other reason for the visit. What was it? Why backtrack lost causes? Why do it half-assed? Let it go. Send an e-mail.

Linda stood over the stove, with that rash-face. She was trying not to freak, and currently this stage was holding. I would’ve liked to be in Bermuda, with a hash pipe surgically attached to my lips, but I was trying, too. Even the dog was trying, smiling at everybody and wagging his tail, not shitting his monuments in the driveway for me to hurdle. We were trying to be an upbeat household. Linda painted the chicken parts, humming loudly. Barbara chopped the salad. She asked if I was hungry. I said I was starving.