In public, the Malones behaved like a reasonably happy (if depleted) family, and while Dan knew his parents’ tension wasn’t related to him, a guilt pressed and folded in all the same. Finished with dinner, Pat swallowed the last of his scotch in one big gulp. He offered Dan a wordless happy-birthday pat on the head. Trying to dispel the silence, his mother smiled at him, which was truly unnerving. Everybody in Hotel Malone is checked out, Dan surmised, piling cheese, rice, and beans into one equanimous bite.

Pat asked one of the waiters (there were over a dozen buzzing around the tables, all dressed in black tuxedo vests) for another Dewar’s, drawing a “Take it easy” from Anne and a reminder from Dan to raise the Mexican flag when he wanted to order something. Pat rattled the ice around his glass and watched the waiters and busboys falling all over each other.

“Mom, can we get sopapillas for dessert, please?”

“What are soapy peas?” Anne asked. She’d diligently eaten the ground beef out of her tacos and left everything else on the plate, which a busboy cleared the second she put down her fork.

“Mexican donuts. They’re awesome.” Anne nodded, and Dan raised the flag. The mariachis started singing “Cumpleaños Feliz” at another table for what felt like the hundredth time. And the Malones sat there with oncoming indigestion, waiting once again for the music to stop.

Pat Malone paid the check and drove his family home. The car reeked of free peppermints and taco grease. As he gunned the Cougar onto Forest Lane, Pat felt very tired and sour. A block later, he revved the car through a yellow light—Right foot a little slow on the gas there—and Anne sucked on her mint, annoyed. A left onto Marsh and two turns later, he brought the car down Crown Shore and up the driveway. It was a warm autumn night, the crickets protesting the dusk. The Malones went inside and deposited themselves in various rooms. Pat made himself a vodka and Seven and flopped down in the den. He turned on The A-Team—who were sneaking Joe Namath out of East Germany, God knows why—and turned the TV off again. He took a long sip of Smirnoff, his head buzzing like the waitstaff at Santa Anna’s. Anne paced around the kitchen, finding ways to make noise, but with nothing to actually do, she finally shuffled into the den to sit across from Pat. To his surprise, he wasn’t drinking alone tonight, as Anne placed her own Waterford cordial of Irish Mist and a pack of Rolaids on the end table.

“So, Pat, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“It’s been a long day, love.”

“Your son is a young man now.”

“That he is.”

“Put some music on or something.”