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"Coleslaw, why don't you sit down and eat," my father-in-law said softly. "Things always seem a little better on a full stomach."

"Maybe you're right," I said. I began to take my place at the opposite side of the table, but Mr. Mirabelli said, "You're so far away down there. Why don't you sit here," and he patted the place where Christian had just been. Both elder Mirabellis moved over to make room for me.

"Are you sure?" I said.

"Yes," Mr. Mirabelli said. "But put your son's towel on your head."

I put my son's towel on my head and sat down between my in-laws, and we all ate slowly, in silence, as befitting a last supper. I wanted to ask so many questions. Why, if they were dressed this way for Anne Marie's benefit, was she not here? What exactly had Thomas told them, and when had he told it? Had he told them about my parents, or was this another thing Mr. Mirabelli found out on his own? But it was the sort of silence that was much preferable to the words that would break it. Besides, I had the feeling that once the silence was broken, the meal would be over and I'd be asked to leave. It was my house, and once again I'd be asked to leave it, and once again I would. Some men would refuse to leave their own homes, but I wasn't one of them. I'd given up my right to refuse, the way some criminals give up their right to remain silent.

But still, no matter how silent we were, the food eventually was eaten and the meal was over. Mrs. Mirabelli got up to clear the dishes, and Thomas helped her, leaving me and Mr. Mirabelli alone in the room.

"Mr. Mirabelli, may I ask you one question?"

"You may, Coleslaw."

"Why are you all dressed up like this if Anne Marie isn't even here?"

"She was here," he said, "but then before we even sat down to eat, she said she was going over to your mother's house. That all this" ― and here he swept his hands over his costume in demonstration ― "was ridiculous."

"She said that?"

"'I'm not a child anymore' ― those were her very words." I could tell that this was the saddest thing that had happened yet, as far as Mr. Mirabelli was concerned. His eyes went cloudy and wet; he closed them, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose for a few seconds. When he put his glasses back on and opened his eyes, they were clear again. "I'm sorry you have to go, Coleslaw," he said. "It feels like we barely got to know you, and here it is, time for you to go already."

"I'm sorry, too," I said.

"Everyone is sorry," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. "You should say good-bye to your son."

"I should," I said. I got up without saying another word, walked to the TV room. Christian was lying on the couch in front of the squawking set. He was asleep, his head halfway hidden by the crook of his arm, and I could hear his sweet breath fluttering past his lips. I loved him. I loved him so much, and I was afraid to say good-bye. You should never say good-bye to your children, not because of what it will do to them, but because of what it will do to you. So I didn't say good-bye. Instead I took the towel off my head, spread it over him as a blanket, then kissed him softly on the forehead. He shifted and moaned in his sleep, and I turned and crept out of the room before he woke up. On my way out of the house, I passed by the dining room. Thomas wasn't there, but Mr. and Mrs. Mirabelli were sitting at the table, drinking coffee and talking about the time in Morocco when their tour guide asked them if they'd ever tried a hookah, and they thought he'd said "hooker." More hilarity, the sort that is years and years in the making. Mr. Mirabelli even took off his towel to hide his face, he was laughing so hard, and I took advantage of his momentary blindness to open the door and leave the Mirabellis and my house in Camelot behind.

THOMAS WAS OUTSIDE, waiting for me, leaning against my van, arms crossed over his bare chest. He must have been cold: it was snowing harder now, and the runtish maples