She looked up. The tension and annoyance were suddenly gone from his face. His mouth was curled on one side and his brow was raised inquisitively. Still holding on to his shirt collar, Frankie smiled and said what sounded like the word shirt, though it may have been hurt or even shit. Roy kissed the top of his head. The two of them, father and son, were leaning toward boyishness from opposite directions, and it was such an endearing sight that she wished there were film in the camera, wherever the camera was; she wanted to freeze the moment in time, already afraid that it was some sort of summit they might never reclaim.

Still, she didn’t want to give up the game entirely.

“Half,” she said, and tried to bend her mouth to match his grin.

“Half what?”

“Points.”

After lunch and the devouring of the birthday cake, they turned the water back on and let the kids wear themselves out on the Slip’N Slide. Walter unrolled the magazine he’d been carrying around—a brand-new issue of Life called “Off to the Moon”—and tried to show Matt a series of profiles on the three astronauts, and then, when those failed to compete with the slide, a color diagram of Apollo 11’s projected flight plan. “A hundred and twelve hours in space before they even set foot on the moon. Can you imagine how long that is?”

“Doubleheader!” Matt yelled, dragging Joseph by the hand to the nearest end of the slide and yanking him into a dive that sent them both across the yard.

Walter leaned sideways in his lawn chair. “Hey—I’m trying to show you something!”

“Let him play,” Helen said, coddling Frankie, who was sound asleep in her arms. “He can read it later.”

“He won’t read it. Anyway, I’m not leaving the magazine here. I’m not finished with it.”

“But you’re finished with the dog, right?” Roy asked. He’d settled into one of the chairs on the opposite side of the patio and had one leg folded across the other, his left loafer bobbing in the air.

“We’ve already settled the matter,” his father said evenly. “Haven’t we?”

“I just want to be clear. You’re not going to be asking for your soon-to-expire, twelve-year-old dog back anytime soon, right?”

“Roy,” his mother said.

“No,” his father said. “We’re not. And he’s eleven.”

“I just want to be clear,” Roy said again. He could see Teresa through the kitchen window, standing at the sink, washing the plates and glasses. The window was closed to keep in the air-conditioning, but she was glancing out every few seconds—trying to lip-read, he thought.

“Armstrong’s a cigar smoker,” Walter said, holding the magazine open with both hands and squinting at it. “I might take up cigars again.”

“Not if you want to kiss me,” Helen said. She winced at Roy, and then smiled.