this night will be for her. Stan berates her for keeping them waiting, and Clark fumbles to apologize on her behalf. Even Corinne has shown up in a Yankee cap, spirited and enthusiastic for the big game. Robin admires his mother for not displaying false excitement, for letting her style set her apart; still he can’t help notice in her departure a dread that they share. This party is like a grown-up version of gym class.
His cousin Larry has been deposited at their house, placed with Ruby and Jackson under Robin’s care, though Robin quickly retreats to his room with the paperback copy of East of Eden he’s been assigned for English class. His mother once took him to see the movie at the Thalia in New York, and now every page is charged with the electric image of James Dean. Robin lies facedown on the bed, skipping ahead until he gets to Cal’s scenes; he hears James Dean speaking for Cal, murmuring his pain and rebellion. It gives him a boner, which he grinds distractedly into the sheets as he reads.
An hour later, when a sharp, burning stink wafts under his door, he heads downstairs to investigate, carrying the book in front of his fly to hide the evidence.
The living room is hazy with smoke; the game is on TV but no one is watching it. In the kitchen, Jackson stands on a chair in his underwear, trying to push open the skylight over the sink. Larry, in his underwear, too, is clutching his ribs and faking an uncontrollable coughing fit.
“What the hell?” Robin demands.
“We torched the Rice Krispie Treats,” Jackson says.
“You’re supposed to put them in the fridge,” Robin admonishes, “not the oven.”
“Shut up, Susie Homemaker,” Larry snorts. Jackson begins laughing and loses his balance in the chair. Larry gives him an extra shove, which knocks him into the sink; his elbow hits the faucet and the water pours out onto his belly. When he stands up his underwear is soaked.
“Ah-ha,” Larry says. “Couldn’t hold it in.”
There are few people Robin dislikes more than his cousin. Even though Larry’s a year younger, he always manages to intimidate Robin. Larry has a Bowery Boy’s face: eyes forever moving into a squint, nose scrunched up as if he’s been forced to do something he hates, mouth in a sneer. Proud of his farts, quick with his insults, endlessly pulling pranks—of all the put-downs Robin’s learned from his mother, the one that suits Larry best is primitive. Worst of all is his influence on Jackson. Most of the time Robin thinks of Jackson as simply the pest in the next bed, the loudmouth never out of earshot, a nuisance no worse or better than bad weather. But Larry drags Jackson behind closed doors, and after much giggling and half-whispered plotting they emerge with a new campaign of terror laid out. They bellow dirty jokes they don’t necessarily understand and laugh too loudly at them. They taunt Robin. Put Jackson alongside Larry and it’s as though the monster has grown a second head.
“Don’t expect me to clean this mess up,” Robin says, and leaves the kitchen, opening a window to air out the room.
Ten minutes later, Robin is roused from his reading again, this time by Ruby’s squeals. He runs to the hall and sees Jackson and Larry darting out of her bedroom naked. “Streakers!” Ruby shrieks in horror.
Robin freezes for a moment—stunned at the flash of skin—and then, feeling that it is his duty as the oldest one to impose some order, calls out, “You guys, cut it out.”
Larry and Jackson stop at the top of the stairs. Side by side, hands in the air, they shake from the hips. “Freddy and Petey on parade!” Larry yells.
Robin looks at their dicks slapping to and fro. Jackson’s is just a little boy’s pud, no bigger than his pinky, but Larry’s is already developing, taking on a fullness that looks like his own. Larry pinches two of his fingers around it and gives it a shake. “Squirt, squirt,” he says mockingly, staring Robin in the eyes, his gaze a dare, not just defiant but belittling. Robin turns his eyes away from them, red faced, and yells, “I said cut it out.”
“Oh, we’re scared.” Larry smirks and then takes off downstairs after Jackson.
Robin charges after them, unsure what else to do. His confusion escalates as they race through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen—their bared flesh in this setting is doubly disturbing. Larry’s daring makes Robin feel timid; the way he just flaunted himself in front of Robin feels like a personal insult, a knowing “gotcha” for which Robin must now retaliate.
Jackson disappears through the basement door. Larry turns around and spits out, “No girls allowed,” slamming the door behind him.
The aftermath of the Rice Krispie Treats is strewn across the countertop. Robin grabs the metal mixing bowl, smeared with sugary goo, the spoon, the box of cereal, and the charred baking pan. He throws open the door. At the bottom of the dark stairway, he can make out two crouched figures. Before they have a chance to move from their hiding place he hurls everything at them. A surprised yelp rises up from Jackson. Larry just laughs like a gleeful gnome. Robin storms away, frustrated that he missed his main target.
Every door has its own particular voice. The chunk-chunk of the car being exited in the driveway, the squawk of the screen door arcing wide, the metallic turn of the front door’s loose knob, the sweep its lower edge makes on the hall carpet. From his bed Robin follows the path of his parents’ return, hears their muffled speech, the heaving pad of their feet on the rug. Something’s not quite right: he can hear Aunt Corinne with them, moving toward the basement (the airy fling of that door familiar, too). She’s calling for Larry. Robin gets up and goes to the top of the stairs.
“Mom?”
His mother lies wilted over his father’s shoulder. He’s trying to maneuver her up the stairs. Behind them Corinne is placing Dorothy’s purse on an end table and motioning for Larry, who’s standing in his shorts and T-shirt. “What’s the big idea?” he asks sleepily, but Corinne shushes him.
“Will you be OK, Clark?” she asks.
“Yeah, that’s me, the OK Kid,” his father says flatly.
Corinne pauses before moving. “I’m sure Stan didn’t mean anything. I think Dottie just took it wrong.”
“ ’Course,” Clark says, not meeting her eyes.
Robin feels himself tensing up. Uncle Stan insulted his mother? She got drunk because of it? “What did he say?” he blurts out.
“Never mind,” Clark says. “Give me a hand here.”
“Why do I gotta go?” Larry complains, but Corinne just pushes him out the door.
Robin steps to his parents. “Your mother outdid herself tonight,” Clark says. Dorothy’s sagging face seems to have been loosened from its bones. Robin wipes a thread of spittle from her chin. “Let’s get her upstairs,” Clark says. “She’s gonna give me a dislocated shoulder.”
Clark swings Dorothy upward, and Robin hooks himself under her free arm. He drags the weight behind him, one step at a time. “What happened?” he asks again, a growing sense of outrage and fear knotting in his belly. Did it have something to do with her outfit? Did his mother feel overdressed and out of place? Is it his fault for encouraging her to dress as she would on one of their City Days?
Clark guides them to the bathroom. “She’s going to need another stop at the trough.” They position her on the floor in front of the toilet. In the sudden bright light, the bathroom’s grime rises to prominence. The toilet rim where Clark places Dorothy’s hands is marked by pale yellow splashes and a couple of stuck pubic hairs. Robin runs a cloth under cold water and presses it to his mother’s face.
She stirs at the contact, sliding forward and bonking her skull on the upturned seat. “Oh, it’s you,” she slurs.
The sloppiness of her speech fills him with pity. “Hi, Mom.” He wipes the cloth across her forehead tenderly.
“Come on, Dottie,” Clark says, “Let’s take care of business and get you to bed.” Robin can smell alcohol on his father’s breath,