Late that night, after his mom had gone to bed, Alvin lay on the floor of the dark hallway in his home, peering through the gap under the door to his dad’s room. He had discovered this years ago and had watched his dad on many nights. Tonight his dad was exercising in his underwear, doing push-ups and working with the barbells. Alvin had taken the small pile of Ruth’s journals, adding them to his stash in the cellar. He couldn’t believe what Ruth had written about everyone in Pisgah—about his own mom and dad, even. His dad now stood in front of the three-paneled mirror, flexing his chest muscles, then the thigh muscles of his small perfect body. Why didn’t his mom and dad sleep in the same room? He couldn’t remember them ever kissing or touching each other, and couldn’t imagine them kissing like Annie and Lew had been doing. He would be a hunter. In many years he would return to Raj, Annie, Lew, and Nora changed beyond all recognition—tall, powerful, bearded, silent. His dad now gave himself a wedgie and, turning around, looked back over his shoulder into the mirror, flexing one butt cheek, then the other. After a few moments of this, he began to take up strange poses, using the furniture as props, always looking at himself in the mirror. Some were like dancer’s poses. In others he pouted or stretched out on the floor, snarling like a tiger, or tangled himself up in the bedsheet. At one stage, he performed an odd little dance, almost like a hula girl. Finally his dad got tired, pulled a comic book from under his mattress, and began to read.

Hung over, Frank joined his dad and Annie at the breakfast table. His mom was frying eggs.

“You look like shit,” his dad said. “What time you get back last night?”

Frank didn’t answer. His mom brought him coffee and a plate of eggs.

“Damn shit.” His dad flapped his newspaper to straighten it and turned the page. “You gonna work in my backyard all your life?”

“Dad”—Annie tried to distract her father—“did you know that one beaver can fell fifteen trees in a week?”

His dad pointed at Frank with the tines of his fork. “This one don’t fell no trees. Sits around on his beaver ass all day scratching his beaver balls.”

His mom had her back to them, pretending to wipe down the counter with a filthy rag while staring out the window. Thursday. Even through his thickened, throbbing brain, he felt the unease of this day. Dad was always in a bad mood on Thursdays. Every Thursday his mom went to see her school friend, Caroline, in Baxter. Frank had never been able to forget what Mary had said over the pool table. He met Annie’s eyes. She was watching him as if she knew what he was thinking.

Reaching over, he combed his fingers gently through her curls. “Don’t you ever brush your hair?”