A robust young woman dressed in stiff black and white approached the table, flung her hair around and took their orders, uttering vaguely obscene, carefully rehearsed murmurs of approval at each of their choices (“Mmmm, that’s my favorite.” “Oooo, you’re going to love that.” “I haven’t tried that one yet, but I’ve heard it’s sinful!”), so that by the time she’d left the table, they all were a little uncomfortable.

“Deerforth College,” Gloria said, stroking her braid. “Didn’t we know someone there, Leon? It wasn’t George Forstein, was it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“That friend of yours who killed himself?” Russell asked. “The biochemist?”

“I don’t think either of us ever considered him a friend, did we, Leon? He married that woman who made jewelry and went around selling it out of the trunk of her car. She insisted on having all those babies.” Gloria held out her palm, as if she’d just offered them the explanation for the suicide.

“Did this happen at Deerforth?” Desmond asked hopefully, thinking it finally might give him something to discuss with senior faculty.

“No,” Leon said. “His behavior became so erratic, even Deerforth wouldn’t keep him. In retrospect, he probably had a brain tumor.”

“He had a horrible marriage,” Gloria corrected. “He was bored senseless by that wife, and on top of that, he was lazy. How are things at the store, darling?”

“Interesting segue, mother. Things are fine. If you come down tomorrow I’ll give you the employee discount on any purchase over fifty dollars.”

“Ah, well, if you throw in shipping, I’ll consider it.”

Before Russell had a chance to lob back the next sarcastic rejoinder, the long-haired waitress and a coterie of helpers lugged overflowing plates to their table, set them down in front of them, and then stood back admiring their handiwork. Every gesture, every comment from the staff seemed to have been scripted by an army of market analysts in the home office of whatever multinational corporation owned this hotel. Even the arrangement of the food on the plate appeared overly rehearsed.

“They must use shovels back in the kitchen,” Gloria said, giving the pile of food on her plate a nudge with the back of her fork.

Desmond looked in dismay at the greasy mound of pasta in front of him, one more obstacle to overcome today. The only thing more appetite-suppressing than slow service was having the food delivered this quickly. The evening was not going well. No worse than these evenings usually went perhaps, but Desmond was beginning to feel like a corgi, desperate to run circles around the table and herd everyone together, to reassure Russell, if only for a moment, that his was a convincing facsimile of a happy family.