“Calm down. I’m sorry.”

Anne threw the Chanel No. 5 into Pat’s lap, demanding he return it. Then she stormed around the tree picking up scraps of wrapping paper until she broke down crying. Dan escaped to his room, where he lurked until dinner listening to Dylan. His father retreated to the back room and pretended to care about the Sun Bowl while waiting for an early cocktail hour. At dinner, Pat told Anne again he was sorry, but that just set off another venomous litany. This time Anne was triggered by forgetting to take the bag out of the turkey before putting it in the oven, and it had been cooking all day, but the stupid thermometer hadn’t popped, and when she skewered into the breast the juice didn’t run clear, and it was a twelve-pound bird and still underdone, and what a fucking waste of money, and the oven was cycling off too much, which was the real problem, and that was another thing we don’t have the money to fix, and I forgot to make gravy, and the Brussels sprouts are a little burnt, and the stuffing dry, and the sweet potatoes the only goddamn thing that turned out, and sorry, folks, but no one helps, and I work like a dog and have to do everything, and it’s not my fault, none of this is my goddamn fault.

So that was Christmas—the three of them locked in on each other around the dinner table with nothing good to say. Now began day two of the siege. As his mother took a step into his bedroom, Dan shook his head and waved her off. It was obvious he wanted to be left alone, and that was when his mother was the most hectoring.

“Fine, I guess we’ll all just sit in separate rooms and not talk to each other.”

Good idea, Dan thought.

Anne was in a royal mood to pick a fight but instead caught herself.

“I’m sorry about yesterday. Your father can drive me crazy.”

“Mom . . .”

“We both love you.” Anne noticed the copy of The Scarlet Letter on Dan’s desk, but it did not stop her; she was in martyr mode. “It’s just hard with how things are now.”

“Mom, stop. Just leave me alone.”

“I’m trying to talk to you!”

“And I’m trying to work! Please just get out.”

“Fine, you and your father. No one can talk to either of you.”

“Go!”

“Stop yelling at me.”

At this point, the coils in the pullout mattress in the back room creaked and popped. Pat had woken up. The truth was he had barely been asleep—his mind addled, his legs racing with uneasy, tired fits. He heard this carry-over argument between his wife and son and sat up.

Anne continued in a fake whisper. “Honest to God, Dan, no one can talk to you.”