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“Yes, but they pretend it doesn’t,” she said. “It’s a domestic game, you see. Whoever finally can’t stand it has to tend to it.”
The lights in the side yard clicked on, as well as a second set on the front porch. Deborah clocked the sudden illumination with raised eyebrows.
“I reprogrammed the timers,” Evan said. “Through your network.”
“Ah,” she said. “Home security.”
A creaking of the stairs drew his focus, and a moment later Ruby entered, rubbing her eyes. “Hey, Mom.”
Deborah said, “Sweetheart.”
“Hi, guard dog.”
Evan said, “Sweetheart.”
“Which kind?” Ruby asked, chinning at the table.
“Sorry?” Evan said.
“There is a generational Seabrookian root-beer-float debate. A&W. Or Mug.”
“I don’t drink root-beer floats,” Evan said.
“Oh, shut up.” Ruby retrieved a bottle of Mug and made herself a float. She held the ice-cream carton at arm’s length, reading the nutritional facts. “A serving is athirdof a cup? Who the hell eats athirdof a cup of ice cream? Smurfs? Screw you, calorie content. At least announce yourself honestly.” She vigorously spooned several peels of vanilla into her glass. “I’m gonna hate-eat half the carton now.”
“That’s my girl,” Deborah said. “You show that prevaricating ice cream.”
Evan couldn’t get his mind off Joey. Was she right that people like the Seabrooks got undue attention? Or was she just mad at his priorities?
What inefficient idiocy, he thought, to be preoccupied with someone else’s feelings.
There was more movement in the house, and then Mason padded into the kitchen, wrapped in a royal-blue bathrobe. He sniffed the air. “Wow,” he said. “This kitchen. It’s so … well ventilated.”
Deborah said,“Mason.”
His eyes pulled to the float sitting untouched before Evan. “A&W?” he asked. “Or Mug?”
“I don’t drink root-beer floats,” Evan said.
“Of course not.” Mason trudged to the refrigerator and lifted out the bottle of A&W.
Ruby sneered at her father. “Root-beer barbarian.”
He scooped a ball of ice cream into his glass and then poured healthily. “Uncouth soda jerk.”
“Johnny liked Mug better,” Ruby said.
The abrupt silence was so complete that Evan could hear the bubbles popping in the froth of his untouched float. The Seabrooks stirred their drinks, stared down into them.
Evan wished he could think of one goddamned thing to say.
“You told me,” Mason finally said to Deborah, “that we should never shame someone for finding joy.”
“Mason,” Deborah said. “I don’t think we need to revisit—”
“For Johnny? Everything came so easily to him.” Mason was looking at Evan now, but it seemed he wasn’t talking to him. “Girls, sports. And if it didn’t, he didn’t care about it. I wanted him to find something to excel at. But he never wanted to bust his ass for anything. Never had to.” In the dim light of the kitchen, his beard looked multicolored, gray and brown and black and blond. “I was so hard on him. It wasn’t until he was gone that I realized … what he excelled at? Was being happy.”
It was rare to see a grown man cry so readily.
