Story over, she grew quiet, peeling the matcha-green enamel off her nails. “What?” I asked, and she said: “I’m thinking that hindsight’s not the point here. From our perspective, we understand that was violence, but in the mid-nineteenth century, they didn’t. The same way I think that in 2100, they’ll look back, read your biography, and say you robbed me of my home, and they’ll see this as violence, and will say you were a man of your time. Just a small-minded man.”

“Fine,” I said, “and you’re completely nuts.” I had one hand on the wheel, and I heard the click of the car lock, and then her door was opening. I was going only fifty because it was a two-lane road, winding, badly maintained, and those familiar with it were driving so recklessly, I slowed down even more. I had both hands on the wheel now, and I checked the rearview mirror. I was afraid of getting rear-ended, imagined the bottles shattering in the trunk. She had the door cracked open, was clutching the handle—I told myself she couldn’t possibly want to throw herself out—the situation wasn’t that dire.

She shut the door again, still clutching the black plastic door handle, ready to open it at any time. I turned off into an industrial area, and slowed down. When the car came to a stop, Barbara slowly opened the door and slipped her right leg out, grazing the asphalt with her bare foot, like a joke.

“What is it?” I asked. While I’d searched for a place to turn off, I’d felt a certain calmness; suddenly, her behavior felt normal.

She didn’t answer.

“Come on. It’s okay. Say what you want to say—go on, honey.”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

I took her hand. “Come on—just say it.”

“I have to be on the deed to the condo.”

I rolled down my window. I’d been sweating the whole drive; the air-conditioning in my car no longer worked and hadn’t for a long time. On the road where we’d stopped, I saw the gates to various small factories, all of which seemed to be closed that day; the pavement was worn and full of potholes. The sky was opaque; I was wearing my polarized sunglasses that made everything sharper, real and fake. I lowered my glasses and the street looked uglier. I put them back on and said: “Okay.”

Barbara started texting with someone. I felt hurt that she hadn’t thanked me, and silly for feeling hurt.

Outside Anzio, we stopped and bought a pizza and some orange soda as a snack to have with my father.

Getting out by the gate of my parents’ beach house, Barbara said: “Now, let’s see if your dad greets me.” She set the pizza on the scalding-hot car roof, hoping he’d notice and suggest we talk, and she smiled as she saw him coming down the porch steps to meet us at the gate that he was now sliding open. I took out a bottle of beer. (Barbara and I were whispering back and forth: “You know we don’t greet each other in my family.” “Yeah, I know, I know.” “It’s not like he says hello to me, right?” “He’s treating you nice these days.” “He’s terrified you’re going to leave me the week before, too.” “Poor thing.”)