“But she needs to know you’re trying. She needs to hope things will get better again.” I turn my stick over the flames and smell the rawhide aroma of the wiener cooking, see the skin bubble up.

“Your mother should know that about me. She should have faith.”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“Now don’t you go blabbing to her. I’ll tell her about the bus driving in my own good time.”

“Those dogs look about done,” Uncle Leo interrupts.

Diesel sits next to me, both ears up. Mmmm. Smells good!

“Did you make a salad?” I ask. “You know Mom likes us to have vegetables.”

“What do you call this?” Uncle Leo bangs a relish jar down on the patio table. “All kinds of green things mushed together. And this.” He sets down a ketchup bottle beside it. “A tomato salad, only you don’t have to chew.”

“I could get cheese and bacon. We could make whistle dogs,” Dad suggests.

“You’re funny, Dad. Uncle Leo’s closer with his ketchup and relish.”

“Okay, I’ll serve something more healthy.” Dad runs back into the house and brings out pickles. “And we have sauerkraut.”

“I can heat up some beans,” Uncle Leo says.

I roll my eyes. With Mom, our plates are mostly filled with vegetables. With Dad and Uncle Leo, it’s junk food every day. We eat on those cheap paper plates that the chip stands use so there are no dishes, except for some knives and forks.

Uncle Leo drops a wiener in the ashes but he pokes it back out and gives it to Diesel. Why, thank you! Happiness all around.

After the wieners, we roast marshmallows. Dad likes to set his on fire and watch them flambé. “Tell me this isn’t the best,” he says as he holds it out for me to sample.

The crispy outside tastes bitter, which contrasts nicely with the melted extra-sweet inside, opposites working together deliciously. It hits me like a punch in the stomach. Dad and Mom are like that, too: opposites that could work to bring out the best in each other — Dad fun and carefree, Mom hard-working and responsible. They could be an awesome combo. Instead, it’s like their marshmallow is so burnt, it’s falling off the stick into the fire.

After supper, we don’t clean up much. Uncle Leo tosses everything in a big garbage bag that he throws in his shed. Diesel scores one of our plates — Chewy round disc — and shreds it under the table as Dad brings out sleeping bags and we open up the deck chairs. Uncle Leo sets up his little TV so we can watch the baseball game. “Just like at the drive-in,” he comments.

“Yep.” It’s never dark enough for the first movie at the drive-in, either. I just lie back and listen to the ball game. The pale picture isn’t a big deal to Uncle Leo, since his set is a junk-day find. The screen image looks snowy at any time of day, inside the house or out. As the innings play on, the sky glows orange and pink till the sun sinks, leaving a golden glow on the outlines of the houses.