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meat and calls, “Jason … supper’s on …”
    Jason comes racing back to the deck and we sit down at the redwood table.
    “Well,” Bitsy says, waving her fork, “what do you think of our place?”
    “It’s beautiful,” Mom says. But she sounds dreamy, as if she is talking about something else.
    Bitsy sighs. “You know, Davey, when webought this house we expected to raise a family here, but … c’est la vie.”
    I don’t respond. I don’t know what to say.
    “We tried for years,” Bitsy continues. “We went through every test imaginable. Didn’t we, Walter?”
    “We did,” Walter says.
    “Of course, today they have so many new methods … but it’s too late for us.”
    I think about my parents taking a chance just one time and wham … getting me. I wonder how Walter and Bitsy feel about that. I’m sure they know. And I wonder why they never adopted a baby if they wanted one so badly. But I don’t ask. I finish my hamburger and reach for a second helping of potato salad.
    “You see that apricot tree,” Bitsy says, pointing. “We planted it the year we moved in. Isn’t it beautiful?”
    “Yes,” we all answer at once.
    “We’re just so happy that you’re here,” Bitsy says, giving Mom’s arm a pat. “And we want you to have a wonderful time.”
    Bitsy is talking as if we are really on vacation. As if everything is fine and dandy. As if we are just an ordinary family visiting their relatives and having supper on the deck.
    No one mentions the real reason for our being here.
    No one mentions my father.
    For dessert Bitsy carries out a strawberry ice cream pie with a graham cracker crust.
    “Yum,” Jason says, tasting it, and licking his lips. “This is really good.” He wolfs it down, then runs back into the yard, to play with his Frisbee.
    Bitsy serves coffee to the rest of us. I never drink coffee but I accept a cup anyway, then disguise it with four sugars and pour cream up to the brim.
    I half listen as Walter and Bitsy chat on about the town, their friends, all the interesting sights we are going to see.
    And then, suddenly, Jason is crying, “Mommy … Mommy …” and running back to the deck, his hands over his face.
    When he takes them away I see the blood. Blood, gushing—gushing and dripping onto his clothes, onto the deck. I panic and scream. I scream and I scream until Mom grabs me and shakes me by the shoulders and shouts, “Stop it, Davey! Stop it! It’s just a nosebleed. That’s all. A nosebleed.” She hugs me tightly and my screams turn to sobs. “It’s all right, honey,” Mom says over and over again. “It’s all right.”
    Bitsy shoves a glass under my nose and says, “Here … take a sip …”
    I try to say, What is it? but I can’t get the words out.
    Still, Bitsy must understand because she says, “It’s brandy. It’ll make you feel better.”
    I take a sip and it burns my throat. Burns mythroat and makes me cough. I take a second sip anyway, then a third. It makes my stomach feel warm. I sit down and try to breathe normally.
    “You sure can scream,” Jason says. He is sitting on Walter’s lap, an ice pack pressed to the back of his neck.
    “It’s the high altitude,” Walter tells me. “Some people get nosebleeds when they first come here. He’ll be fine.”
    “I’ll be fine,” Jason repeats. “Did you think I was going to die?”
    “No, of course not,” I answer.
    “Then why did you scream that way?”
    I shake my head, unable to answer.

EIGHT
    A week later we are sitting around the dinner table when I ask Bitsy if I can borrow her bicycle tomorrow. I’ve seen two of them in the garage, each labeled Kronick , with their address, phone and social security numbers engraved across the bar.
    “Certainly,” Bitsy says, “as long as you wear a helmet.”
    “A helmet?” I ask.
    “Yes. You can borrow mine.” She finishes her third cup of coffee and wipes her mouth with a napkin.
    “But I ride all the time in Atlantic