“I have a joke.” Their dad stood from the table and clapped his hands together.

“Is it better than the last one?” Shane asked as he ran water over the dishes.

“The last one?” Dad furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Okay, here goes. Why did the physics teacher break up with the biology teacher?” He paused again, just as before, and smiled. “Because there was no chemistry.”

Their laughter was forced and disjointed.

“See?” he said. “I do know how to tell a joke.”

“Yes, Dad, you do.” Colleen wiped her hands on the dish towel and swallowed her rising grief.

“Grandy,” Rosie said with her wand in the air. “You already told that one.”

Gavin looked at Rosie and tousled her hair without comment.

Rosie turned her attention to her aunt. “Aunt Lena, stay here and play with us.”

“I promised Grandy I would help at the pub.”

“Please!” Rosie sidled near Colleen and pulled on the edges of her shorts. “Just until we have to go home.” Sadie, still not quite sure of this aunt who had suddenly showed up in their lives, backed away.

“Let’s not go home.” Rosie fluffed her tutu. “I like it better here.”

Hallie placed her hands on top of both blond heads. “Girls, Daddy is waiting at home.”

“I have a joke.” Their dad’s voice filled the room in a bellowing voice.

Silence fell. The LP hit the end of its recording, the swish-swish-swish of the needle.

“Dad . . .” Shane walked toward Gavin standing with his palms set on the kitchen table and a smile on his face.

Gavin continued. “Why did the physics teacher break up with the biology teacher? Because there was no chemistry.” He raised his arms in a V for victory because he’d just told the best joke of his life.

No one laughed, the room quiet with discomfort and the record continuing to circle silently.

“Why can’t I ever make my family laugh at my jokes?” Gavin smiled good-naturedly and ambled toward the door. “And you wonder why I take my jokes to the pub.”

Chapter Thirteen

Memory is a pulse passing through all created life.

David Whyte, Consolations

They couldn’t see her watching and for that reason it felt very much like a movie. The Family: that was what the movie would be called, Colleen surmised. She sat on the back stoop of the house, under the awning, covered in shadow and quiet. It was late morning and the day hadn’t heated up to its full potential and yet sweat trickled down her legs and between her shoulder blades. She held the morning newspaper, the one she’d once written for all those years ago, the one she’d meant to bring out to her dad. Now it was scrunched in her lap, the pages fluttering with the morning breeze.