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onto the closet shelf. He snatched a handful of neckties from his tie rack and stuffed them into the bag. Zander poked me in the ribs with his elbow and raised an eyebrow (but not in the totally cool way of Mrs. Perkins, my second-grade teacher). Carmella stood there gaping. “…can’t get no…” Dad crammed a pile of his carefully laundered and pressed work shirts—hangers and all—into the bag. “…hey hey hey…that’s what I say….” He snatched the bottle of rum by the throat and tilted it to his mouth. “…can’t get no…” He pulled his dress pants out of the closet and dumped them into the bag in a big wad.
    “Robert?” said Mom, who’d been gardening in the backyard and had only just appeared in the doorway. Her voice was a whisper of confusion.
    “…try, and I try…” Dad removed another handful of shirts and a couple slipped like reluctant ghosts to the floor.
    Mom stepped into the room “Robert, what are you doing?”
    Dad danced over to her, a huge smile on his face. He wrapped her in his arms and planted a noisy kiss smack on her lips. Then he took another hit from that bottle. Zander, Carmella and I sat on the bed, transfixed. We’d never seen anything like this. Not at our house, anyway—maybe on some weird TV show, but this was real life. It was
our
father stuffing his clothing into trash bags and getting drunker by the minute.
    “Robert!”
    Dad yanked another bag from the box and sat on the closet floor. Shoe after shoe went into the bag—black ones, brown ones, shoes with laces, loafers. Shiny leather. Touches of suede. Spiraling dots punched into the uppers in fancy designs.
    “Robert, what is going on?” This time my mother’s voice was strong. She stepped over to the closet.
    Dad looked at her and laughed hysterically, clutching his sides. Tears streamed down his face.
    It was weird to sit there on my parents’ bed with my father laughing and drunk on the closet floor, surrounded by the dregs of his wardrobe, while my mother stood over him. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen my dad drunk. It was scary and exciting and amusing and embarrassing all at once.
    Zander started giggling, and Carmella sat beside him, big-eyed but, for once, mute. “Jane,” said my mother firmly, “take Zander and Carmella to the kitchen and make them some dinner.”
    I pretended not to hear her. I didn’t want to miss the grand finale, whatever it might include.
    A handful of belts went into the bag, the ends dangling from Dad’s fist like the tails of so many lizards. “…no satisfaction…” He was now dancing as he filled the bag with his remaining clothing.
    “Jane.” My mother’s voice held no wiggle room.
    “What am I supposed to cook?” I asked petulantly.
    “Whatever you want. Now go.”
    “C’mon,” I said grouchily, grabbing Carmella’s hand and dragging her from the bed. “And stop crying, you big baby. No one’s done anything to you.” I turned to glare at Zander, still sitting there watching the show. “You, too,
Lysander.
” Afterward, I berated myself for urging him away. If he’d stayed, he could have given me a play-by-play of the events that had unfolded while I’d been rummaging around in the cabinet in search of something to feed them.
    Luke came in while I was making grilled cheese sandwiches (which I’ve called meltdowns ever since) and canned soup. Carmella finally unlocked her jaw and cut loose. “You won’t believe what happened. Dad came home with bags and he’s throwing away his clothes and Mom’s all bossy acting and he kept drinking right out of the bottle and—”
    “Breathe, Carmella, breathe,” said Luke.
    “Yeah. Hush and let me tell it. You don’t even know what he was drinking,” I said.
    “Yes, I do. He had a bottle of—”
    Zander clamped his hand over her mouth and he and I explained to Luke what was unraveling in the bedroom down the hall.
             
    Needless to say, by the next day, the whole neighborhood