“Hello, Daddy.”
He nods and tells her to listen.
She kisses the top of his head.
“What is this?”
He touches his ear for Grace to listen.
“What is it? What are you listening to? What’s he listening to?” she says.
Helen doesn’t have a chance to answer — Carl is spinning into the room. He stops his chair in front of Walter’s chair.
“This is Carl,” Grace says.
“Carl,” Walter says.
They lean together and shake hands.
“I didn’t see no Jacuzzi,” Carl says.
“What do you mean?” Walter says.
Carl looks at Grace.
“You said they had Jacuzzi. She told me you had Jacuzzi.”
“No,” Walter says.
“Goats?” Carl says. “Did you used to have you some goats?”
“Years ago,” Walter says.
“Well, okay,” Carl says, “that’s something.” He rocks his head some. “Yeah, that’s something.”
Carl steers himself around the room, his chair leaving tracks in the carpet — swirled spots where he tips and spins. He picks a vase up.
“You got yourself a real nice place, Dr. H. All right if I call you Dr. H, Dr. H? That suit you?”
Walter is quiet. He keeps an eye shut.
“You’ll stay for dinner?” Helen asks.
She half sings it, a girly lilt that makes her sound drunk and cheerful.
“Is this your mother?” Carl says.
He holds a photograph up for Grace to see.
“There’s plenty,” Helen says.
She can pull out the ham from the back of the fridge, add flakes to the mashed potatoes. “There’s always plenty. But you’ll excuse me.”
She pinches the flounce of her nightgown as though she is about to curtsy.
“I’ll put some clothes on.”
“Fine by me,” Carl says. “Grace?”
“We should have called first,” Grace says again.
“Hey, Grace?”
“Yeah,” she says.
“You sure do look like your mother.”
They don’t go in right away when Helen calls them.
Grace stays in the room with her father, talking to the dogs through the sliding glass door. The dogs are whining, prancing, little light caps of snow on their heads. Grace licks the glass door — that’s a doggie kiss — and one of the dogs licks back at her. She giggles.
She has an awful, wincing giggle. It is surprising — even to Walter.
But even this is not surprising, to be surprised. It is the order of the day, of the years she has lived. She has broken something, wandered off; she rode her bike through a plate glass door.
Months pass and not a peep and then, voilà, she appears again with some new affliction. She giggles and it sounds like choking. She sits on the floor and swallows and it sounds as though something living is being squeezed through her throat or sprung.
“Goddamnit,” Walter says. “Get up, get up.”
“It’s on,” Helen says. “It’s dinner.”
Walter gets up onto his legs first, pushes off his knees with his hands. He swings his chest up. Both of his hip joints catch and pop and his ankle wants to slip off his foot when he walks.
Carl glides in, takes his place at the table.
“You got to get your mind right, Doc. That’s the whole trick,” he says. He picks his fork up. “You get your mind wrapped around it. You got to. Me, I got no—”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea,” Walter says.
“Come on, man, I see you. It hurts you just to walk. Me,” Carl says, “I got nothing. I got no pain, I got nothing. I really feel for you.”
“You can shut up,” Walter says.
“Don’t,” Grace says, “Daddy.”
She walks around behind her father and hooks her arms around his chest. She lays her face against his neck and holds him.
“Naw, man, listen. Hey.”
“You all sit,” Helen says, and pours the wine, picks up the platter of ham. “In a minute, it won’t be worth eating.”
“What the hell do you want?” Walter says. Carl picks up a glass, taps it against another glass.
“Here’s to you, Doc.”
Grace is whispering to her father. She kisses the collar of his shirt. She kisses along one shoulder seam, watching for him to speak.
“I love you too, honey,” Walter says at last.
“Here’s to love, then. To love,” Carl says.
They take their places at the table.
Carl passes the bowl of potatoes to Grace. Grace’s hands shake; her whole body shakes. She takes hold of the bowl from the bottom. It is hot. She jerks her hand back, knocks over a glass of wine.
“Pfoo,” she says. “I didn’t mean to.”
Helen finds a towel, dabs at the wine.
“Well, how’s everything?” Walter asks. “How’s your new job, Francesca?”
“It ain’t Francesca,” Carl says, “it’s Gracie. She changed her name to Grace.”
“Did she.”
Walter draws in his lips, puckers his chin.
“Nobody tells me anything. I’m always the last to know.”
He shakes his napkin out.
“Do you like your job?” he asks her.
“What job is that?” Carl says.
“I like it fine,” Grace says.
“Carl,” she says.
“Goddamn. Goddamn, Grace. You kick me? You think I can’t feel you kick me?
Carl jabs at the slice of ham on his plate, eats into a round on the spit of his fork.
“You don’t want her at the VA anyway, Doc. A job like that. All them animals.”
Carl serves himself more potatoes, makes a place with his spoon for the gravy to pool. The muscle knots up in his arm.
“Grace, pass me them beans, please.”
She pushes the bowl across the table.
“Aren’t you eating?” Walter asks her.
She picks her fork up.
“She don’t eat,” Carl says. “You got any bread? Sometimes she’ll eat bread for supper.”
Helen brings her two slices of bread on a plate.
“Butter?” Helen asks her.
“If you got it,” Carl says.
Helen goes to the fridge for butter. Carl is eating the bread, watching her, her skirt pulling tight in places. He winks at Walter.
“You done all right.”
“Listen, buddy.”
Walter stands up.
“You want to fuck with me?”
Carl hops his chair out in front of Walter. He makes a little mocking charge that rattles the plates on the table.
“Yeah, boy, old man. Fuck with me. Please.”
Walter stands there, blinking. He turns and walks out of the room.
Carl winks at Grace. “Give me that loaf,” he says.
Grace goes to the counter, picks up the bread with both hands. She keeps an eye on the bread, walking with it, holding the loaf out in front of her, leans — as though she is making her way against wind.
“You got a real good girl, Dr. H,” Carl says, loudly now. “Them guys at the VA liked her.”
Walter puts on opera, sits down again in the wing back.
Helen tips a slice of bread from the loaf and puts it down in front of Grace. “Eat, now. You haven’t eaten.”
“I haven’t eaten,” Grace says.
“Mostly she keeps shit around, see. Likes to save it.”
“Will you leave her alone?” Helen says.
“Leave her alone? Why, Mommy?”
Carl passes his hand in front of Helen’s face.
“Open your eyes, please.”
Walter swings the door shut between them. A little quiet — why not? Is it so much to ask?
“You people,” Carl says.
He pops a wheelie, knocks his legs into the table. “You’re starting to get to me. Whyn’t you talk to me?”