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he had no choice but to come, he felt tricked and trapped, the past closing around him,thick as humidity. This would be the first time they’d all been together since the funeral.
    He didn’t have time to process his thoughts. The used-book store floated by on their left like a warning ( NEW $2 HARDBACK BARN ), and the campgrounds with their plywood cutouts of Yogi Bear welcoming RVs, and the Willow Run Golf Club, a failed farm turned into a par three where his father had taught him not only to make contact but the etiquette of the game before he was allowed on the Chautauqua course. Around the bend squatted the Snug Harbor Lounge, a local dive with a portable sign advertising that night’s band, a vintage Firebird for sale gleaming beside it. And then they were spinning alongside the fishery, its complex of square ponds ranked neatly as an ice tray, and from habit he was searching the far edge for herons, stealing glances from the road.
    He would take the Holga over there, he thought, shoot the fish in the pump-house well, dark shapes in the water. The expectation of something to do soothed him, making the sign for Manor Drive less of a shock.
    â€œHere we are,” he said, and turned in, rolling the 4Runner through the slow curve by habit, the action of his hands practiced.
    How well he knew this place, even the trees—the gnarled crab apple in the Nevilles’ yard with its contortions he and Meg had been sure sprung from some underground evil; the two big oaks that pinched the road, lifted one lip of asphalt like carpet. He knew every cottage and even the big houses now, how each held that family’s unguarded hours, the damp, casual passing of the summer. When they left, those long days would still be here, waiting the winter beneath the snow, the lake beneath its ice like the pike and muskie huddled in the mud, heartbeats slowed to a discrete thump. All the gin-and-tonic card games and chicken-salad sandwiches on the dock would be waiting for them, the arms of the willows swinging in the breeze, but they would not return, and wherever they went next year he would miss this place, would always miss it.
    He realized he was panicking and caught his breath.
    â€œAre you all right?” Lise asked.
    â€œI just had this big nostalgia attack all of a sudden.”
    â€œThink it’s your father, maybe?”
    â€œMaybe. I don’t know.”
    Again he was aware of Ella and Sam listening in. They learned more about their parents on one long car trip than all year at home.
    There was the cottage, tucked under the big chestnut, and the mailbox with his mother’s daylilies. They’d brought Arlene’s car. He aimed the 4Runner off to one side, under the chestnut, so they could both get out. The top of the car rattled the branches.
    â€œThe bikes!” Lise cried, and he stood on the brakes and the car stalled, rubbery chestnut pods bonking the roof.
    â€œGoddammit,” he said, because he’d been careful with them all day, estimating their height from his own, checking the clearance before hitting the ATM and the gas plazas.
    Lise opened her door and stood on the running board.
    â€œWhat’s it look like?”
    â€œI think if you back up you’ll be all right.”
    He started the car with a roar.
    â€œWait till I get in,” she said.
    He was aware of the anger that made him clench his entire face to maintain control. This was exactly the kind of shit he hated. He hadn’t even wanted to bring the bikes. The kids barely rode them.
    His mother and Aunt Arlene came out of the house, Rufus bounding around them. His mother was laughing, saying something.
    He rolled down his window.
    â€œHaving a little tree trouble, I see,” she said.
    â€œI just need to back it up. If you could keep Rufus out of the way.”
    She stepped back again, displeased with him not seeing it as a joke. “Go ahead,” she said, “he’s fine.”
    He looked