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in museum talk.
    As usual, my dad had this distinctly Nutty Professor–like vibe, running his hand nervously through his thinning hair, scattering more dandruff on his black cardigan, his glasses crooked on his nose.
    Eph’s dad, George, however, was all handsome, restless, long-limbed energy. I had a crush on him when I was in first grade—a crush that lasted until I asked Eph if I could be his mom when Ellen died. That didn’t go over well. My crush was kaput now, but on occasion he was so debonair, so much like an old-time movie star that I had to avert my eyes, like he was the sun.
    â€œPenelope, so nice to see you,” he said, leaning around and giving me a kiss on the cheek. I dropped my head, trying to hide my blush.
    â€œMrs. Marx, can I have some bread?” Eph asked, and Mom handed me the bread basket. I took my time choosing a slice, then waited until my mom wasn’t looking and passed it the opposite way.
    He rolled his eyes.
    â€œEllen, how is your new glass studio? It’s in Bushwick, right?” my mom asked politely. She had already confided to me no less than a dozen times that she was worried Ellen would get mugged, going that far out in Brooklyn.
    â€œIt’s amazing,” Ellen replied. “I have so much more space . . .”
    At that point I became aware of the table vibrating, a slight rattle of silverware, drinks shaking, drinks sloshing, and my mind immediately went to an earthquake or huge alien-overlord ship hovering above the city. Eph met my eyes and nodded his head toward my dad, the source of the kinetic energy. He was shaking his leg sohard under the table I thought the whole room was going to start inching itself out of its foundations.
    I could tell Mom was trying to suss out the source of the vibrations while still pretending to listen to Ellen, so for my mom’s sake (but not for Eph’s, who’d called me absurd), I bit the bullet.
    â€œHow was your day, Dad?”
    He exhaled deeply, relieved to let out all that bottled-up energy. “Willo’s coming, darling daughter!”
    As if the declaration freed him, he reached for a hunk of bread and began happily gnawing on it.
    â€œWho’s Willo?” Ellen asked.
    â€œI’m glad you asked, Ellen,” my dad started, his mouth still full of half-chewed bread. Mom patted him gently on the leg, shaking her head.
    â€œIf I may, Theo?” George asked my dad. My dad frowned, eager to expound further but reluctantly held back by my mom’s good table manners. George spread his napkin over his lap with a flourish. “We’re mounting a major exhibit on dinosaur physiology. Were they fast, were they sluggish? Were they closer physiologically to birds or reptiles? Willo was—”
    There was a buzz and George paused, grabbing his cell phone out of his pocket and lowering his dark-rimmed glasses to squint at the number. “Oh, I have to take this.” He pushed his chair back.
    â€œGeorge,” Ellen said, touching his elbow, inclining her head at the rest of the table.
    â€œIt can’t wait—I’m sorry.” He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, then turned to my mother. “Jane, please excuse me. I promise I’ll beback for more of this amazing meal,” he said, winking at her before he left the room.
    Ellen grabbed her glass of wine and put the whole thing back in one gulp.
    My mom’s face knit in disapproval, whether from the wine or George’s departure I couldn’t tell. I knew she wasn’t crazy about these dinners: I had overheard her telling my dad more than once that she worried that Ellen drank too much, that she didn’t like the way George got all handsy at the end of the evening, that she thought George and Ellen shouldn’t leave Eph alone for so long when they traveled for George’s exotic museum-curating trips.
    I loved her, but I wished she wouldn’t worry so