But Trevor had come out of the kitchen before we even made it to the top of the stairs and he grabbed Kelli around the waist in a bear-hug and lifted her briefly off the ground. Like he was being playful.

“Where ya goin, darlin?”

Predictably, Kelli started hollering, and by the time Trevor had frogmarched her back to her perch by the window, she was more than ready to take it up again.

“Put her down,” I said.

“That’s what I’m doin,” said Trevor. “Calm down. You’re the one who’s getting her all worked up.”

Kelli glared at the window, whispering in outrage as she methodically, rapidly rocked herself back into a feeling of security. Trevor reached past her to pull the curtains closed. It was starting to get dark now.

In the kitchen, the Sunbeam gave a final, groaning shudder and at last stopped dead. The house was silent again and I knew I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand another minute of it. I went back to the kitchen and yanked the dishwasher open to survey the carnage within. Grey water sloshed out, sudsy and festooned with food particles, and it got all over the floor.

Behind me, Trevor was in the process of saying, “Jesus, don’t open it! It’s gonna — ah, fuck, now see what you did?”

I took out a plate and flung it away from me. Not at Trevor, just away from me, without much interest in where it would end up. It ended up in the dining room and smashed impressively through the window of my mother’s china cabinet. A two-fer, I thought.

“Jesus Christ!” yelled Trevor.

“Leave,” I said.

“Or you’ll break all the dishes?” said Trevor. “Why should I give a shit if you break all the dishes? Fuckin all we do is break dishes around here.”

So I kept breaking dishes. I smashed them in the sink. I smashed them against the table, the walls. I flung a few more into the dining room — some of them smashed, some didn’t. I avoided the foyer because I wanted to leave it clear, I wanted there to be no impediments to departure when the time came. With every fling, I told Trevor to leave. “Leave,” I said. SMASH. “Leave. Leave. Leave.” SMASH. SMASH. SMASH. Trevor crossed his arms and stood there, off balance because he was trying not to stand on the ball of his right foot where it had been gouged. The bottom tip of his sports sock, I saw, was bloody. He didn’t flinch at the shattering plates, even as Kelli railed at the noise from the living room, no doubt rocking even faster than before and covering her ears. He just watched me, shaking his head. What a pitiful display, he seemed to be saying. What a sad shambles this house had become.

“Who’s gonna clean this —” he tried to interject at one point.

“Leave!” I screamed, and hurled a plate against the big kitchen window that overlooked the backyard and houses beyond. The plate smashed, the window didn’t, but this seemed to shake Trevor out of his bemusement, and he yanked the next plate out of my hand. I went to open the cupboard for more ammunition but he got there just in time and slammed it shut again. We stood there together, me furiously yanking at the cupboard handle, Trevor with his hand flat against the cupboard door, nostrils flaring. And that’s when the doorbell rang for the second time that day.