The spatula was bobbing up and down in Roy’s hand. “She was one of those little tinted chicks you used to buy in front of the supermarket at Easter,” he told Teresa. “There were six of them. They came in an egg crate, remember? Well, I was, what, ten years old? And I wanted to keep those chicks, but Pop said they weren’t really pets and they wouldn’t live long. And, sure enough, they started dying off one after the other.” He flipped a burger. “But not the pink one. She was a trouper; I named her Rita. She turned brown, and lived in the backyard and ate feed out of my hand. All my friends thought I was the bee’s knees because I had a chicken for a pet. And then one night Mom made a roast for dinner. You can see where this story’s going.”

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive,” Walter growled.

“That’s exactly what you told me that night.”

“And you still haven’t taken my advice.”

“I didn’t ask for your advice, Pop. I didn’t ask to eat my pet.”

“For godsake, chickens are food!” Walter snarled.

Matt, thankfully, didn’t seem to be listening to this exchange. He was on his knees in front of Dwight and looked completely enraptured, scratching his hands along the dog’s spine. Teresa felt the need to say something, anything, to change the subject. The meat on the grill was starting to smoke. She stood. “Who’s hungry?” she asked, still holding Frankie and rocking him frantically.

“Me!” Katherine shouted.

“Me!” Joseph echoed.

“Dwight wants a hamburger,” Matt announced.

“Oh, no, honey,” Helen said, “that’ll ruin his stomach. He’ll be sick for days.”

“I’ll get the bread,” Teresa said. “Help me, Roy.”

Roy wiped the back of one hand against his forehead. “Help you what?”

“Get the bread,” Teresa said, motioning toward the house with her head.

Roy handed his father the spatula and asked him not to let anything burn. A moment later he was standing beside her in the kitchen, one hip against the counter, his arms folded across his chest. “Please don’t tell me you want to give in to them.”

“That’s horrible about the chicken. You never told me that story.”

“It’s not something I think about a lot.”

“You know, your mother made a comment—”

“She,” Roy said, “likes to seem oblivious, but she’s totally aware of Pop’s game, and she’s for it. She’s like his … political base.”

“She’s not very confident in us. I think she’s surprised we’re still together.”

“She said that?”

“Well, something close to that.”

“She didn’t mean it. But listen, you don’t want to let them get away with this, right?”