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their father in his World War II uniform, which they had had copied from the curled, brittle original they found in a box in the old house after he had died; a color snapshot from the early 1980s of theirfather and mother together at the anniversary party they had at the catering hall on Franklin Street; and a square black-and-white photo of SJ and Lucy standing shoulder to shoulder, they must have been maybe seven and eight, in front of the old house on Lizardi Street—SJ frowning, squinting, into the sun, and Lucy with a giant grin on her face, wearing a little blouse with a big tulip their mama had sewed onto the front. Lucy opened the refrigerator door and pulled out another Colt 45.
    “Camille look so pretty in that picture,” she said, opening the can. “Samuel, why you don’t find a woman? You need you a woman’s touch. Put some flowers around.”
    “Feel free, sister,” SJ said, rinsing the raw strips of chicken under the tap. “Anytime you want to bring some flowers is allright.” He flicked a small wad of the cornmeal into the oil to see if it was hot enough yet.
    “You know what I’m saying, Samuel,” she said, watching the weatherman with his bad toupee gesturing at a swirl of clouds on the radar screen. “They need Nash Roberts back on,” she said. “Where he went?”
    “I imagine he retired.” SJ stopped what he was doing at the sink and walked over, drying his hands on a dish towel, to watch the weatherman with Lucy. Footage from Florida—trees down, a million people without power. “They saying it’s headed to the Gulf?”
    Lucy grunted, and SJ watched the images carefully. When the commercial came on he went back to making dinner and said, “Have you talked with Wesley?”
    “I haven’t seen him for two days. When y’all had that fight?”
    “That was Monday.”
    “Well however many days that was.”
    That previous Monday night Wesley had shown up for dinner after disappearing for two days—he knew he had left his uncle’s tools sitting out and that SJ would be angry. SJ and Lucy werein the kitchen just as they were now; the sound of footsteps had come from the front of the house, and then Wesley walked into the room, wearing blue cut-off sweatpants, high-top sneakers, an oversized white T-shirt hanging down to his thighs and a baseball cap, backward.
    Lucy set her beer down on the counter without letting go of it and put out her free arm for him. “Baby boy,” she said, with a slight mock grandeur that meant she was on her way to getting drunk.
    “Where Luther at?” Wesley said, walking to his mother and hugging her briefly. He looked around the kitchen, restless, looked at the TV for a moment, went to the bowl of grapes on the counter.
    “He in Boutte,” Lucy said. “You forgotten about that?”
    “Take your hat off,” SJ said.
    Wesley took off the cap, ran his hand through his chaotic hair quickly and said, “Sorry Unca J,” shot a mischievous smile at his mother, who gave him a little smile back, and pulled some grapes off their stems to eat. “You still mad at me about the tools Unca J?”
    SJ took a moment to breathe evenly before saying, “What do you think?”
    “I think Unca J mad at me about the tools.” Wesley ate another handful of grapes.
    “Then why do you need me to tell you something you already know?”
    “I meant to put them away, Unca J. I finished the cornice and I saw what time it was and I had to go. I was going to come back later.”
    “Sister,” SJ said, “can you get the dishes out the icebox.”
    Lucy retrieved two plastic bowls, one with chopped onions and one with chopped bell peppers, and set them on the counter where SJ had arranged several large cloves of garlic.
    “You like that bike you’ve been riding?” SJ said.
    “Unca J, I didn’t…”
    “Be quiet. If you loaned me that bike to go get you something at the store and I went and got it for you and then left the keys in the bike sitting out at the curb, how that make you