“I wouldn’t be so quick to judge if I were you. You talk about safe and smug. You’ve had everything handed to you. You blew off your education and now you’re playing house, thinking you’re a grown-up when you haven’t accepted a shred of responsibility for yourself or Shelly or even that poor son of hers. What have you done that makes you think you’re superior?”

“I’ll tell you what we’ve done. We’re civil rights activists. You didn’t know that, did you? Because you never bothered to ask about our beliefs. We’ve marched in support of Freedom Rides, desegregating bus terminals and restrooms and water fountains in the South . . .”

Deborah was taken aback. “You went to Washington, D.C.?” “Well, no. There was a rally in San Francisco. There were hundreds of us. You and Dad are sheep. You’d go along with anything just to avoid making waves. You’ve never stood up for anything . . .”

She could feel a flash of temper. “Watch yourself, Greg. None of your political rhetoric has anything to do with what’s going on here so don’t muddy the waters. You’ve dropped a bomb in our laps and we’re doing what we can to adjust to the situation. You and Shelly don’t have the right to abuse and insult us.”

Shawn tore into the kitchen again, running full tilt. Deborah reached out a hand and grabbed him by the upper arm. “Listen here. You stop that! I won’t have you screaming and shrieking while we’re having a conversation.”

Shawn stopped in his tracks. He wasn’t accustomed to reprimands. He looked from her to Greg. His face crumpled and he burst into tears, his mouth coming open in a howl so profound there wasn’t any sound at first. He clutched his penis for comfort, perhaps realizing for the first time how vulnerable he was without clothes on. Deborah couldn’t even bear to look at him. When his tears failed to have the desired effect, he added screams. “I hate you. I want my mama. I want my mama.”

Deborah waited for his tantrum to subside, but he just revved it up a notch, the tone of his screams climbing up the scale.

Greg said, “Hey, hey, hey,” doing what he could to calm him, trying to reason and explain while Shawn collapsed on the kitchen floor. He lay on his back and kicked his feet hard, catching Deborah’s ankle in the process.

“Shit,” she said, knowing she’d be bruised for a month.

Shelly appeared in the door, the picture of righteous indignation. Her face was puffy and her hair was matted from sleep. She took one look at Shawn and turned on Deborah. “What did you do to him? You have no right. How dare you lay a hand on my child? I won’t have you interfering with my discipline.”

Adopting a pleasant tone, Deborah said, “What discipline, Shelly? All I did was tell him to stop running around, shrieking, while Greg and I were in the middle of a conversation. That’s common courtesy, though I don’t expect you to embrace anything as bourgeois as that.”