"She thinks I am something," her father says. "The fact is, I just am, and that annoys her."
"The kitchen, by the way, looks very nice. Do you want to show your father what you're doing with the house?"
"We're not finished," Elaine says.
"Well, I want him to see something," her mother says, leading her father into the living room. "Look at this sofa, these pillows. Everyone has to do something about where they sit." She sits down, patting the cushion next to her. He sits beside her. "You can feel it," she says. "The stuffing goes, you sink lower and lower until it takes a crane to get you out. This is how it is on our sofa. Some Saturday night I'm going to sit down and not be able to get up-it makes me think I'm an old woman."
"You are an old woman," her father says.
"Not that old." She peels herself off the sofa with some difficulty and goes back into the kitchen.
Elaine sits next to her father. "You haven't been here in a long time," she says, realizing that she hasn't seen him in months. He looks older and a little frail.
"I like it at home," he says. "Your mother always wants to get out of the house. She just wants to go, I don't think she cares where. Go, I tell her. Go without me. For thirty-five years I left the house every morning; now I want to stay home."
"He just sits there. Some days he just sits all day," her mother throws in from the kitchen.
"So what if I sit? What's wrong with sitting? I earned the right to sit."
"You didn't call me yesterday after I left," her mother says to Elaine. "You have to be careful what you promise people."
"I didn't say I would," Elaine says.
"You said, 'I'll talk to you later.'" Her mother goes on, "I call you every day."
"You call me because you want my attention-you want a lot of my attention."
"That's my way of paying attention. You're always disappointed in me, I can never do enough."
"The feeling is mutual."
"Elaine, I am the way I am. I'm almost seventy years old. The only way I'm going to have a personality transplant is if, God forbid, I have a stroke; otherwise, this is what you get. Would you like some coffee? I brought some of my own from home. I grind the beans every day."
"Are you depressed?" Elaine whispers to her father, hoping her mother won't hear.
He bends toward her. "How would I know?" he whispers back.
"Do you feel unhappy?"
"I feel nothing," he says. "Sometimes a twinge in my back, a little bursitis, but other than that, nothing." He pauses. "It isn't always perfect. Your mother still wants perfection. She still wants everything she never had," he adds loudly. "She won't die without it."
"I will die without it, that's the problem," her mother says.
"Mother, what do you want?" Elaine calls into the kitchen.
"Everything. I want everything, all the best, and you should want it, too."
Her mother sweeps into the living room-a force of nature, her determination evident in the flare of her nostrils, the flash of her eyes, the tightness of her lips. She is fierce. "Where's your family? Why haven't they come down? Rally the troops," her mother says, clapping her hands.
Elaine goes upstairs. Sammy is still in the bed. She uncovers him. "Time to get up," she says.
"No," he says.
"Yes," she says.
Paul is in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror.
"You look at yourself more than anyone I know," Elaine says. "What do you see?"
"Decay," Paul says. "The early signs of rot."
"Breakfast is ready," Elaine says.
"I'm almost done," he says.
There's a little pile of pills on the dresser-mental candy. She can't remember which color does what. She picks two, orange and blue. She dresses. Sammy still has not moved. Elaine goes to make the bed; she pulls the sheets up over him, pretending he's not there. She fluffs the pillows. "Paul," she calls. "Paul, there's a problem with the bed."
"What now?" he asks, not realizing it's a joke.
"There's an inexplicable lump in the middle. Maybe you can do something about it."
"Can't it wait?"
"I don't think so," Elaine says. "I think you ought to deal with it before breakfast."
"Give me a minute," he says, "and I'll take a look."
Sammy giggles.
Elaine knocks on Daniel's door. She pretends her hand is a horn, she pretends that she's playing reveille, she blows hard. "Rise and shine," she says. "Chow's on."
"Where are your filters?" her mother asks when Elaine returns.
"In the drawer below the toaster oven-on the right."
Elaine could go blind and no one would notice. She's memorized where everything is. She could navigate the house for years before anyone caught on. The problem would be something simple, like laundry.
Paul bounds down the stairs, his flat feet clomping like hooves. "Morning," Paul says. "Long time no see. How've you been?" Paul slaps her father on the back.
"I saw that Robertson got Van Kamp," her father says to Paul.
"Only after they gave up Raleigh," Paul says. "And Donaldson is out on his ass."
"Yeah, where'd he go?"
"Organic farming," Paul says.
"Jumped ship?" her father asks-he's the retired guy talking to the working guy, looking for a taste of the old life, a sip of the juice. Paul tries to give him some.
"No, he's gone into organic farming," Paul says.
"I've never heard that one before," her father says. "What does it mean?"
"He gave up everything and started a chicken farm."
The conversation stops, and then her father tries again. "Do you still talk to that other fella?"
"Which one?"
"The guy with the."
"Henry?" Elaine says. Her head hurts-maybe orange and blue were a bad combination. She takes a couple of aspirin.
"That's the one-how's he doing?"
"He's gotten into rock climbing," Paul says.
"What's that mean? Why don't I understand what you're talking about?"
"It's very literal," Elaine says. "He left his wife and has a new girlfriend, and they've been going hiking."
"Oh," her father says. "I thought you were talking in some kind of a code."
"He can get a little paranoid," her mother says. "Where's your dining room table?"
"Elaine axed it," Paul says.
"Mom," Daniel yells downstairs. "Where's my plastic cast?"
"Your what?"
"You know, the white mold I made at Scouts."
"Your plaster cast?" Elaine corrects. She remembers it. She remembers finding it on Daniel's desk, she remembers Paul smashing it, thinking there was some hidden treasure buried within. She remembers dusty white smoke rising, rubble, small pieces on the floor.
She looks at Paul. He goes to the bottom of the stairs.