“Lunch among the little brothers,” said Louis, once they got back to their bag. He had not read about puffins in years. Everything was there. “What their Latin name means. Fratercula: little brother. Because they look like monks, I guess, in robes. Myself I think puffins are Jewish.”

“Because of the beaks.”

“Not only. I’m Jewish myself, you know. They’re pelagic. They fish at sea.”

“Of course.” David opened the box of crackers, which turned out to be charcoal black, like dog biscuits. The picnic tote even had a cheese board and knife, as well as plastic champagne flutes, cutlery, and plates for four, unnecessary and now comic. He cut a wedge of cheddar. “The company of puffins,” he said.

Louis said, regarding one, “Arlene’s trying to get rid of me.”

“What—”

“She’d deny it.”

“Dad. She died.”

“I know that,” said Louis, irritated. “Nevertheless.”

Yes. She was dead. That didn’t change things. Arlene had not trusted him to live alone. “We have to plan for the future,” she’d said. Who wanted to? Let the future itself do the planning. Louis thought of his brother Sidney, who sometimes bothered the customers by simply existing, his beaming smile, his joy over strangers. “Why don’t you put him in a home?” people asked. “He could be with other people like him.” What they meant was: I am different from him and do not wish to be near. Why don’t you get rid of him?

Because I want him near. Because he is with people like him, his family. Oh, Louis had never really wanted to leave his brothers, enter the world of ordinary people, life with a woman and all her, what were they, accoutrements. His brothers would have looked after him forever.

“The feeling persists,” said Louis.

“Dad.”

“I’ve lost your name,” Louis said gently.

“Daddy!” said David.

Louis realized he’d said the wrong thing. “Of course I haven’t. Don’t be daft,” he said, as though he’d become the Scotsman he’d wanted to be.

“Why did you say that?” said David, aware of the anger in his own voice. He understood what was happening, in a way; he knew it was an occasion for sympathy, not fury, but the sympathy he had—inexhaustible!—was buried beneath a layer of fury, and he had to tunnel through, he had to scrabble to get at it. He had to go back in time to before his father had forgotten his name, when he was saying unforgivable things. “Dad,” he said again.

“I didn’t. David,” he said. There it was.

Louis knew what year it was, and he could do nearly everything for himself, but thinking clearly when he was daydreaming was like standing while asleep—he could not do it. The puffins hopped in and out of burrows, as if into stockrooms. His confusion hung between them; they both understood they wouldn’t speak of it. Not till they’d been home for some months, and even then, it would be cautious. Dad, you’ve forgotten. Yes, I suppose I have.