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gone into real estate when my half sister, Alexandra, went to college, and quickly became one of the top Realtors in the state. In nearly every neighborhood in the area, you could see a facsimile of Lydia’s smiling face gracing the yards of homes that she had listed,including the one right across the street.
New listings went up thirty-five percent,
my father had said proudly,
as soon as she added that photo.
    â€œIs that Lydia?” asked Rose, following the direction of my stare.
    Rose knew Lydia but not well, having seen her only a few times a year. But Lydia’s appearance was as predictable as a habit, with freshly blown-out blond hair, light pink lips, and a black shirt that was undone one button too many. “That’s Lydia.”
    Rose looked at the crowd that had assembled down on the cul-de-sac, where large rectangular tables held aluminum trays and brushed stainless Crock-Pots. Then she turned back to me. “Do you want me to watch Uncle Warren?” she asked.
    Cupping her chin in my hand, I realized that she had understood more than I’d thought about Warren’s recent disappearance. “And who’s going to watch you?”
    â€œYou watch me and I’ll watch Uncle Warren,” she reasoned.
    From behind us, the door opened and my mother, carrying a platter of Rice Krispies Treats, stepped out. “Okay,” she said, sounding anxious, hopeful. “We’re ready.” She glanced behind her at Warren. “Fix your hair, honey,” she instructed, after a quiet assessment. Warren took a moment to process the request, then used his fingers to straighten his bangs.
    Leaning past my mother, Rose said, “Uncle Warren, you come with me.”
    A smile formed slowly on his face, though his expression remained quizzical. “You want Uncle Warren to come?”
    â€œYeah,” she said, marching toward him. Mom stepped aside and I watched Rose grip Warren’s pointer finger and pull himforward. Once she had his hand, she tucked it under her arm, as if for safekeeping. Warren gave a brief, suspicious glance toward the crowd. I often wondered how Warren, who interacted so oddly with strangers, held on to a job where he had to encounter so many of them each night. “Now you need
to stay where I can see you
,” said Rose, repeating a line she’d heard me say countless times in parks and playgrounds.
    Warren laughed. It was a quiet noise that sounded as if it had been turned out with a crank. “Are you in charge of Uncle Warren?”
    â€œYeah,” she said, leading him down the stairs. “I’m going to make sure you don’t get lost.” My mother’s eye caught mine and she gave me a grateful look.
    As we made our way down to the party, we crossed the front yard, past metallic garden globes and faded pastel flags. Mom’s yard was scattered with such objects, all looking like shells in the sand that had been washed from the house during the retreat of some great tide. We passed neighbors holding bottles of beer and cups of hot cider, heading to this house or that. They looked at us, gave a nod and a tight smile. But no one stopped for a conversation. I was surprised by how many homes were inhabited by strangers now, by how many faces were unfamiliar.
    At the cul-de-sac a handful of the neighborhood’s old guard were gathered—Bill and Carol Kotch, Shelley Ditchkiss, and, of course, Linda Vanni. Standing next to his mother with a red plastic cup in his hand was Bobby. A little girl who I assumed was his daughter clung to his side. No taller than Rose, she had thick espresso-colored hair that was pulled half back and secured with a grosgrain bow. It looked like Bobby hadbeen cornered by Shelley Ditchkiss, who was one to drone on for thirty minutes about her son-in-law’s promotion to partner or daughter’s decision to be a stay-at-home mom, or something equally self-congratulatory and uninteresting.
    The