“That’s so. There’s no longer the need.”

I saw my mother took this for a gibe at her, but he turned to my aunt at once. “You know what I’ll have.”

“How would she know that?” my mother objected.

“I’m a creature of simple tastes. Just a salad with no dressing.”

“Are you a vegan, Abel?” my father said as if to pacify the conversation.

“From the star, do you mean?” Abel’s eyes widened at me, though I couldn’t tell whether he meant to absorb or convey the idea. “You come from those, Patrick,” he said. “You’re made of the same material. You’re closer to it while you’re young.”

My mother visibly resented some or all of this. “Jonathan was asking if your tastes are vegan.”

“Of course, that’s another meaning now. Yes, I’m nourished from the earth.”

When he and my aunt shared a glance my mother said “Have you gone that way too, Thelma?”

“I’m the omnivore I’ve always been. You know me, eager for experience.” No doubt she sensed the disapproval this roused, because she said “It’s cold meats and salads for the family.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” my mother said heavily enough to squeeze an extra meaning forth. “Would you like some help?”

“Abel will be. That’s why he’s here.”

“He’s brought you inspiration, has he?” my father said.

“We’ve helped each other grow,” Abel said and waited for my aunt to follow him to the kitchen.

My mother rested her gaze on their backs before leading the way into the front room. “Find something to read, Patrick,” she said. “Not that book.”

I leafed through a study of surrealism, more hastily whenever nude women made an appearance. My parents stared out at the sky, which was growing prematurely dark with the omen of a summer storm, but neither of them spoke until Abel came to fetch us. “We’re ready for you,” he said.

“We’re on our way,” my father told him, so immediately that I suspected he was forestalling whatever his wife might have said.

Abel bowed us into the dining-room, even giving me the salutation, which made me wonder if all the gestures were ironic. The floor-length windows displayed the back garden, beyond which the sky above Third Mile Wood resembled a midnight too solid for stars. My aunt was tossing salad in a wooden bowl as wide as her forearm was long, and a smaller bowl of unembellished leaves stood at the head of the table. Unnecessarily in at least one sense my mother said “Is that your place, Abel?”

“That’s for our host to say. I’m at her disposal.” When my mother raised her eyebrows so high they appeared to tug her lips thin, he said “I expect people do your bidding where you work.”