“Sentimentality about one’s mother,” Eastman said as if it were a thesis, “is a bit of a mirage. It’s inflicted upon the bourgeoisie to stifle their feelings of rebellion.”

“Do you think so?”

“Certainly,” Eastman said.

Chaplin gave a small snort of appreciation. There had been a bowl of peanuts before them, and now there were shells. “Mother, son, family. It’s arbitrary, isn’t it?” He was absently trying to rebuild a family of them with mismatched parts. “I had thought things would be different by now,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s 1918. As a race, we’ve reached the apex of sophistication. I thought so many problems would be solved.”

“Like what?”

“Is there always going to be stupidity?” Chaplin asked. “When the war ended, I thought—”

“The war’s not over.” Eastman drained his beer.

“What do you mean?”

“There are troops in Russia.”

“I distinguish the revolution from the war, Eastman.”

“So do I. I mean there are Allied troops fighting the troops of Mother Russia right now.”

“That can’t be so. We would have heard about that.”

“It’s in the papers.” Eastman patted his lips. “But it’s on page twenty, you know. American troops are engaged in battle against Bolsheviks.”

“But why?”

“I could parrot the party line, Charlie. The Bolsheviks think the Allies want to control Mother Russia, take her resources, keep the people of Russia from their self-determination. That the United States and Britain fear the inevitable spread of workers’ revolution so much they want to strangle its progenitor. If I hadn’t had that last beer, I might have told you that.”

Chaplin was prepared for some con to fall on him. But:

“You’re a man plagued by his family right now. You don’t need me to go doctrinaire on you. The truth is much more disturbing anyway.”

“What’s the truth?”

“Do you know why we’re in Russia?” When Chaplin shook his head, Eastman shook his head, too. “There is no reason.”

…

Chaplin had Kono drop him off at the curb, at the bottom of the driveway. There was a light on in the foyer, where he removed his shoes, and the entryway was filled with his mother’s boxes. Another light was on in the dining room, where a plate of roast beef waited.