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my mother moved aside a Crock-Pot to make room for her platter. “How are you, Karl?” she said to a man in a Windbreaker with a corporate logo, who was plowing a potato chip through onion dip. She squinted and rested her curved hand over her brow. “We got a nice day for this, didn’t we?” With his face frozen in what must have been intended to be a pleasant expression, the man named Karl made a sound of noncommittal agreement before popping the chip into his mouth and turning away. A moment later, he engaged in a hearty backslap with a golf-garb-clad man whose huge convex belly gave him the look of a gestating aquatic mammal.
    Once Karl was out of earshot, my mother glanced from Warren to Rose to me, then back out at the party. “It’s good that we’re all here together,” she said, through her pageant smile. “We should walk around,” she said. “Say hello to everyone.”
    My mother held Warren’s upper arm protectively as we navigated the crowd, following Rose, who despite her best intentions was not doing a very good job of looking after her uncleWarren. Mom nodded her hellos to the neighbors, mentioning that their new shutters “look great!” or that their chrysanthemums were “gorgeous this year!” They nodded polite thank-yous and kept walking. For the most part, they ignored Warren. Occasionally, the neighbors would steal glances at him, their gazes moving subtly in his direction as we continued to make our way down the street. But the conversation in which they were engaged wouldn’t stop. And their assessment wouldn’t last more than a moment or so. Some would offer a too loud and too enthusiastic, “Hi, Warren! How’re your planes?” referring to the RC planes that he built and flew, walking endless loops around the neighborhood.
Hi, Warren!
It was the way people talked to toddlers. And dogs. That was the way they talked to Warren.
    My brother used to have a friend in the neighborhood named Howard Li. Howard was a child prodigy whose parents were engineers at the enormous telecommunications company in the next town, and Howard was Warren’s only real friend. When they moved into King’s Knoll, everyone was nice enough, but made no real effort to engage the Lis socially, as Mrs. Li’s seeming optimism, as manifested by her constant nodding smile, made everyone a little uncomfortable. “I don’t understand what she thinks is so damn wonderful,” I had heard Mrs. Daglatella say. But Howard and Warren seemed to understand each other. And I used to watch as Howard, a twelve-year-old sophomore, and Warren, a visitor from another galaxy, waged battle with defoliated forsythia branches in the backyard. Their skinny, shirtless bodies would leap and twist as they whipped their branches at a legion of invisible and invented foes, the forsythia humming as it cut through the air.
    â€œIs she a Maglon?” Howard would ask Warren when I stepped out onto the deck, his forsythia aimed at me and ready to inflict its wrath.
    â€œNo,” Warren would say almost coolly, having momentarily shed all geekiness. “She’s an Aurotite.” Howard would lower his branch and I would surreptitiously light the cigarette I had stolen from my mother, who still sometimes smoked back then—my small rebellion.
    As we headed for the Kotches, who were now standing alone, Rose caught sight of Gabby Vanni tucked against her grandmother’s side as she straightened up the buffet table. “Hey, Mom!” said Rose, pointing. “I see a girl!”
    â€œLet’s go say hi.” I caught my mother’s eyes. “I’m going to take Rose . . . ,” I said, indicating Bobby’s daughter and communicating my intent with a gesture. Mom nodded and I took Rose’s hand.
    As we approached, Mrs. Vanni gave me a fond smile. “I swear,” she said, shaking her head. “You kids. You