“They’re going to find out anyway,” his father said.

Matt, who was fourteen and the eldest, said, “You don’t have to tell me. I already know.”

“Oh, Matt, be quiet,” his mother said. “You don’t know.”

“Yes I do,” Matt insisted. “Paul Krieger’s father is in the same boat. He told Paul, and Paul told me.”

“Why does Matt get to know and I don’t?” Katherine asked.

“There’s nothing to know,” Frankie’s mother said, glaring at Matt. “Everything is fine.” She glared at Katherine and at Joe, too, and finally at Frankie, whose mouth was full of food. “Just eat,” she said.

The next morning she got dressed and left for work without taking Frankie to Mrs. Woodrow’s house. His father was at the table for breakfast, as usual, but he didn’t go anywhere afterward. He stayed in his robe and pajamas, reading the newspaper.

An hour later, Frankie was sitting on the couch and Matt and Joe were on the living room floor, watching Ultraman. Frankie’s father was still at the table. Katherine stood between the two rooms, holding a glass of milk, staring at him. “Aren’t you going to work?” she asked.

“No.” He lit a cigarette and turned a page of the newspaper.

Matt looked at Katherine and Joe. “Told you.”

“I’m supposed to go to Mrs. Woodrow’s house,” Frankie said.

“You don’t have to go today,” his father said without looking up. “I’m going to be here.”

“Are you sick?” Katherine asked.

“No, I’m not sick. I’m just going to be here.”

Frankie heard Katherine groan softly as she walked toward the back of the house. When their television show ended, both his brothers followed.

By lunchtime, the three of them were gone. Matt and Joe had ridden their bicycles to the mall, and Katherine had walked to the end of the street to play foursquare with her friends. Frankie’s father made him a baloney sandwich and Frankie sat on the couch eating it and watching The Andy Griffith Show. His father ate his own sandwich standing up. He stared out the window at the front lawn for a while. Then he turned around. “Do they usually do that? Just leave like that?”

“Who?”

“Matt and Joe. Katherine.”

“I don’t know,” Frankie said. “I’m supposed to go to Mrs. Woodrow’s.”

His father looked at him. He turned back to the window. “God, that grass looks pale.”

“I’m supposed to be playing with Jennifer.”

“It looks awful,” his father said. “Probably the soil. Who’s Jennifer?”

“Jennifer,” Frankie said.

“Oh, that little girl who—that’s Mrs. Woodrow’s daughter?”

Frankie nodded.

“Well, you’re not going over there today, I told you that. Wouldn’t you rather be here with me for a change? Have some fun?”