Walter, sitting in the chair next to hers, tapping the rolled-up magazine against his palm like a billy club, cleared his throat. “You’re getting a good deal, Roy. Dwight’s already trained. He’s already broken in.”

“You make him sound like a used car,” Roy muttered. He turned hot dogs and flipped burgers.

“Is there another beer somewhere?”

Teresa felt as if she were watching a business deal suddenly go south. For a moment, she forgot that she could have any voice in the matter; it all seemed to be between Roy and his father. But part of this investment was hers. Bouncing Frankie in her arms, she said, “Matt seems happy.”

The dog had finished circumnavigating the yard. It was standing at the edge of the patio, and Matt was squatting down in front of it with his arms held out.

“That’s not the point,” Roy said.

She caught his eye. “Maybe it should be the point.”

“Listen to your wife,” Walter instructed.

Roy tilted his head in her direction. “You want this dog in our house? This dog? He can’t even control his bladder anymore.”

Dwight collapsed in front of Matt and the boy scratched his hands up and down the dog’s back.

Helen shifted in her chair. “Roy always loved pets when he was little. He used to put on shows for us. We had a fox terrier he taught to jump through a tire and roll over. For about two weeks, once, we took in a cat while the neighbors were on vacation, and in no time, Roy had it meowing whenever he said the word Shanghai. A cat. Can you imagine that? He even trained a chicken to follow a clothespin tied to the end of a string.” Her expression popped as if she’d felt a minor electrical jolt, and she looked down at her lap.

“Yeah, what about that chicken?” Roy asked.

“He loved animals,” Helen said, locking her hands together.

“Tell them about the chicken, Mom.”

Helen said nothing. Walter grinned. “That was a good chicken.”