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hamming it up for the “guessers.” I doubt the game will last much longer since Tom has conveyed how boring and out of style it is. Either way, by the end of these dinners, despite how I believe in them, I’m usually there in body only, dreaming of watercolors or oils, of frames consisting of sand glued on wood.
    â€œDinner?” Charles asks, checking out the scene. The twins have scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces and LEGOs everywhere. Tom ordered the first Harry Potter movie on Netflix and is blaring it although no one is interested. The regular movers have signed off, having shoveled boxes into every room as well as the entryway and garage.
    â€œDinner. Sure, Dr. Chuck, nothing special about today,” Candy says. “All good around here.” She’s got an armload of pots and pans and is looking for the best storage place. She bends down at the cabinet under the stovetop.
    â€œMaybe we should order a few pizzas,” Charles suggests.
    â€œThat’s a nice thought, Charles.” I’m wondering what he’s missing about how exhausted we are. Or the possibility that we’ve already thought of it.
    Candy moves to the island where her iPad rests and taps on the screen. “We live in the Monroe section of Elliot. No one delivers.”
    â€œCharles? Why don’t you go into town with the children, Candy can go too, and eat at the pizza place. I’ll stay at the house.… I’ll keep unpacking.”
    â€œToo dark, the streets are very dark by now,” Charles answers.
    â€œDr. Chuck, you’re the one who wanted to move to the country!” Candy says. “Didn’t you know there are no streetlights here?” She starts making up a song. “Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” she sings.
    Charles starts rummaging around the cupboards. “Where’s the gin?”
    â€œWe didn’t find it yet,” I say. “I don’t know where it is.…”
    Was it only this morning that Charles carried me to the front door and swept me away? When Charles slides into a mood I remember that my grandmother used to tell me that we are born alone and die alone, although no one ever wants to be alone. She advised me to marry the right man, a man who would be my friend, first and foremost.
    Charles traipses toward the back entrance and then turns to us. “Are the boxes marked in the garage? The boxes for the wet bar?”
    â€œDad, what about the pizza?” Tom freezes Harry Potter .
    â€œAsk Mom.” He disappears into the garage, slamming the door behind him. A half hour later Charles pulls my Jeep to the front of the house. I watch from the window as my children and Candy pile in to go into town for dinner. Charles shines the light from his iPhone app as they buckle up, illuminating each of their faces. Then they are progressing, my family, whom the move has rendered unrecognizable. I am alone in the empty house, as desolate as I’ve ever been. Derrick has neglected to place the last box of shells and shards from my broken work with the others. I open it, overcome with grief.

 
    FOUR
    Just my luck, a newbie at the front desk and Stacy is taking her own sweet time registering her. Why this transaction, which is more the Stacy Power Show than anything else, has to affect me is beyond my belief.
    â€œIs it possible to get a locker and to leave my things here?” the newbie asks, holding a gym bag that appears dreadfully dense—possibly loaded down with a blow dryer, soap—filched from five-star hotel bathrooms—John Frieda shampoo, and two accompanying conditioners, Nivea—the extra-rich version—and La Mer for her face. A brew of immaculate and high maintenance. She shifts her weight and the gym bag thuds to the floor. Beyond the desk, by the snack bar, sits a bevy of young mothers who have purposely arrived early for their toddlers’ ten o’clock swim class. They chat it up—the complexity of