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the dull middle child of a hippie and a famous writer supposed to toast his parents’ anniversary? “Congratulations, and Iapologize for squandering your genetic bounty by teaching freshmen how to bleat scales on the trumpet.”
    The sun is settling toward Round Lake, which he glimpses between the garage and the house, before opening the door into the screened-in porch. Van wonders if the sax player’s parents have a yacht docked out there. It’s not unlikely.
    His phone buzzes in his pocket, and without thinking he snatches it up and looks at the screen. Before his brain could even form the word “Barbara” in his thoughts, the Caller ID says JENNY and he lets it go to voice mail.
    He stumbles up the porch step as he puts the phone away, following sounds of cutlery on plates and the booming baritone of Katya’s husband toward the dining room.
    “You made it!” exclaims his mother, as she pushes back from the table and rushes to greet him, her long dress rippling behind her. Ivan tries not to pull her hair as he hugs her, having to bend down a significant distance, wishing he wasn’t so tall because then he wouldn’t have to feel like a grown-up. His entrance and Mira’s exclamation have interrupted some story Charles was telling. Ivan slaps his dad on the shoulder, and Max gives him a wink, crinkling up his face like Santa Claus. He always used to wink at Ivan, his only son. To Van it meant, “Just you and me kid, bobbing in a sea of estrogen.”
    “We’ve got a plate for you right here,” says his mother, leading him to her right. There’s an empty chair for Irina, but no food yet at her place, as no one ever knows when she’ll pop through the door.
    “Where are the kids?” Van sees no sign of his nephews and niece.
    “Upstairs.” Katya waves her hand toward the stairwell, then adjusts her napkin on her lap. Ivan understands they bolted down their food as fast as they could and scurried away to the television and their cell phones.
    Katya changes the subject from his parents’ inquiries about the drive up north, cutting right to the chase. She would have made a terrific prosecuting attorney.
    “So, Van, I was so sorry to hear Barbara couldn’t make it.”
    “Yes, that was too bad,” Mirabelle interjects, and starts a monologue on the virtues of wheat-flour pasta as she loads Van’s plate with more than he would possibly eat.
    But Katya will not be distracted. Ivan meets her gaze with the same weighty defeat as when he faced the angry sax player’s parents and Barbara’s indifference.
    “We had a falling-out, and that’s all anyone needs to know.” He attacks his spaghetti, and Katya gives up the chase for the moment, turning instead to wondering aloud where Irina could possibly be.
    Ivan realizes as he watches his older sister talk, that Barbara looks a great deal like Katya. They both have this thick hair that falls wavy, just like Mirabelle’s, though Barbara’s hair is that reddish color and Katya’s is sandy brown, like their father’s. And the shape of their eyes is somewhat narrowed, with eyebrows like slashes, which can glare with devastating effect.
    Just as well Barbara didn’t come then.
    “Dad, how’s the new book coming along?”
    “Hmm?”
    Max always seems to be writing his novels on the opposite wall of whatever room he’s in, staring into that space with penetrating intensity. Seeing his father in this state of suspended animation makes Ivan think that he himself lacks that level of concentration, and maybe if he could only shut out the rest of the world, he could write a song worth listening to.
    “The new book.”
    “Oh, that. Yes, fine. I’m probably halfway through. Thinking of killing off the confidante.”
    “Oh, not Augustus Cheever!” Ivan always liked that character, a fussy old Brit.
    “Killed him off three books ago,” Max says through a mouthful of salad. “New sidekick now, Nicky Pauls. From Brooklyn.”
    Ivan snags his wineglass, which Mirabelle