They clink gla.s.ses. "To panic attacks," Claire says.

Wendy shouts out for them to watch the cannonball. They turn and wait until she launches herself in the pool. When she surfaces, they applaud wildly, Charlie standing up and whistling swift and shrill with his fingers. Claire likes men who can whistle like that.

"Enough about me," she says. "How was your day?"

"Oh, you know, lots of discovering that my father was a fraudulent and deluded man. That kind of thing," he says. "But really, Claire, tell me, how are things? Things must be terrible."

"Ha! Ha! Yes! Yes, they are," she says. "We're gonna be f.u.c.king homeless!"

He laughs. "Totally," he says. "Homeless with Kids. Maybe that could be a new reality show? You're a total MILF. You could totally rock that show."

"I hate that word," she says.

"It just means-"

"It just means mothers aren't real women. So they need a special term if they're f.u.c.kable? Right?"

"Touche."

They smile these dorky smiles at each other and drink and look at the empty pool and the full trees and the goldfinch and chickadees all about the yard and then Charlie says, "You know, I have a house. Consider it yours."

And though he swears he is serious, and he repeats his seriousness over and over amid the joyful shouts of her children, she laughs it off, she says it is a ridiculously extravagant gesture, ha ha ha, Charlie, you're crazy!

Later, the kids swimming in the twilight, Claire and Charlie clear the table, take the dishes and cups and pizza boxes to the trash before it gets too dark, and as she is stuffing pizza boxes into a trash can inside the garage, Charlie feels a speech emerging from some dark place inside him, an urge to say something, an urge to make something happen, just to see if he can. He feels his father's blood buzz in his veins.

"I want this. I want a full house," he says, making eye contact with Claire. Holding her gaze. "I want to help. I want to be near you, in the same orbit, and I want to know when you wake up and when you go to sleep and I don't expect anything more, Claire, but I want you to come live in this house. I will live out in my father's office. I prefer to sleep there anyway. It has everything I need. Otherwise, this big house will just go to waste."

She does not think about it, she simply says, "That is an insane and generous offer."

And as they are walking back to the pool, Charlie calls, "COWABUNGA!" and breaks into a full sprint, whipping off his shirt, leaping off the pool deck, and finally landing in a colossal cannonball amid her shrieking children. Claire's hands fly to her face as if she is trying to stop the exploding grin from being a reality.

Charlie surfaces and feels invincible.

Outside, Don Lowry hears shouting and laughter and music. He looks next to him, to ABC, sleeping. If she does love him, if that's really what she meant when she kissed him and said, Don't be dumb, maybe he can get past the idea that his own wife, the woman he's loved for nearly two decades, doesn't love him. It'd be easier to get through all this, just maybe, if he already had his next love lined up.

"ABC?" he says, in a throaty whisper. His mouth is so dry. Outside, the music seems to swell and a wave of laughter, unmistakable laughter, echoes in the yard. His children. His children, laughing.

He gets off the futon, heavy headed, and pulls up the shades of the windows and sees, in the gloaming, his family in a state of raucous and unremitting happiness. Charlie leaping into the pool. His children shouting and splashing.

And Claire, his wife, smiling in a way he has not seen her smile in months. He presses his forehead to the windowpane, though he makes no sound and n.o.body notices him.

PART IV.

How is it possible to want so many things and still want nothing. The man wants to sleep and wants to hit his head again and again against a wall. Why is it all so difficult?.

-Stephen Dobyns, "How to Like It"

JULY 1,.

91 DEGREES.

Here is Don Lowry, here is the morning's new light, and here is the U-Haul truck that will take away the only life he ever imagined.

There is Claire on the front lawn, there are the boxes that will be loaded first, there is the Sharpie marker that she uses to write explanations of the contents inside: BOOKS, TOOLS, FRAGILE, HEAVY.

What Don wants more than anything is for his wife-she is still his wife despite the circ.u.mstances-to walk toward him and hold him and whisper a word-sorry-into his ear.

And maybe he'd see her cry-he's not seen that for a while and it terrifies him. Is it really that easy to fall out of love? Have the last two decades been negated from their memory?

Don imagines that they have hugged, and then cried, and now are wiping their eyes with the palms of their hands as if they could press all the tears back in. But they do not do that. Instead, Claire calls out for the keys. He tells her they are in the truck and goes inside.

What he finds even more unbearable is that soon the kids will wake up, and soon they will see the truck, and they will know that they are moving and they are moving to a place where their father will not come.

Bryan is twelve and that means he's old enough to help, not cry. He is getting stronger. He can lift heavier boxes now, even heavier than the ones his mom can lift. He does not have the aches and pains he hears his father complain about.

When Bryan wakes up, Don greets him in the hallway.

"You wanna help us load up?" Don asks. "We could use the muscle."

But Bryan does not want to help. He doesn't say this, or anything else, just sulks by Don in silence and goes into the bathroom and locks it. Don stands outside the door. The shower begins to run. Don almost knocks on the door, but then doesn't knock on the door.

In her room, down the hall from Bryan's room, Wendy is awake. Don can hear her stirring and he knocks and when she mumbles, "Come in," he pushes the door open and finds her dressed, looking out her window, sitting on a box packed with her books. You cannot see the front yard from her window, so she has not seen what Bryan has seen: her parents in the morning light, in the long shadows of the U-Haul. But her shades are open and to the east you can see the mottled sun of early morning, the sunrise, which you can always see from this window. Some mornings last winter, when the low, thin clouds in the sky striated across the blue expanse, Don would find Wendy there, staring out at the sky.

"I'll miss this view," Wendy whispers and when she says that, Don thinks it sounds like something an adult would say.

Don tightens his face and goes down the hall to the master bathroom to brush his teeth so that he will not cry too. But the toothbrushes have been packed and his weeping attracts Bryan, and then Wendy. Bryan is wrapped in a towel, Wendy is holding a box of tissues. They regard him as if he is someone they don't know well at all, and maybe they really don't.

"I had a dream that you all moved without me," Bryan says. "In my dream, I woke up and found the house empty."

"That's the dream I had!" Wendy says. "Almost the same thing. I came home from the pool on my bike and the house was completely empty."

"We'd never move without you, kids," Don says. "That's impossible."

"But you are, Dad," Bryan says. "That's what you're doing."

"Not exactly," Don says. "I mean, not forever."

His voice somehow doesn't sound like his own. He clears his throat. He says the same thing again. And now his own voice sounds even stranger than it did before, as if he is underwater and shouting up toward the surface.

It is hard for Claire not to admit that what she likes most about the new house-Charlie's house, the Gulliver place-is that it is empty. The clutter of the Lowrys' lives has choked the energy out of the old place, but they have gotten rid of so much, have schlepped boxes and boxes to Goodwill and have managed to make fifteen hundred dollars at their garage sales. So the move will not be so hard. They will not fill the Gulliver place. There are three bedrooms upstairs and each of them will have their own. Charlie will sleep out in the guesthouse, amid a small clearing he's made in the chaos of his father's intellectual clutter, so the children feel comfortable and unconfused.

Charlie and Don move the beds in one at a time. Bryan and Wendy bring in random boxes and odds and ends and ABC is already setting up the kitchen. If you had just driven by and seen the U-Haul, you would have a.s.sumed that this was one big extended family helping out on moving day.

At one point, Claire and ABC find themselves out near the pool, taking a break from unpacking. As the temperature climbs toward 100 degrees, the kids have quit helping unpack and have taken refuge in the water.

"Hey, Ma," Wendy hollers while treading out in the deep end, "I don't like our new house, I LOVE IT!"

"We should totally go for a swim too," ABC says, after walking over to Claire, who is standing outside the guesthouse in a small shaded spot. ABC had been drinking an iced tea in the air-conditioned comfort of Gill Gulliver's study when Claire and the kids came out and the kids jumped, shrieking with pleasure, into the pool. It seemed antisocial not to come out of the room and chat.

"If I can find my swimsuits. They are packed here somewhere."

"Hasn't stopped you before," ABC says.

"Touche."

"Anyway, G.o.d. I hate moving."

Claire nods, sips the gla.s.s of tea ABC has handed to her. "When you don't have a choice, it sucks."

ABC and Claire watch the antics of the children for a bit.

"Look, Claire," ABC says, "I just want to say, um, I think it's really cool how you and Don are trying to do this in such a drama-free way. My parents made my life a living h.e.l.l for six years when they separated."

"No kid deserves that. It's strange-n.o.body I know comes from a family that stayed intact. You, Don, me, Charlie. I mean, what the h.e.l.l?"

"Do you think it scars us?"

"It makes us incapable of love," Claire says. "I mean real, healthy, focused love."

"No," ABC says. "That's not true. I was in love once."

"Yeah, but she died," Claire says, and it sounds harsher than she intends. "I guess, I mean, maybe she died before you had to deal with the end of love."

ABC can sense the distance coming from Claire, even on the sweltering pool deck. She feels she has to say something.

"I want you to know that Don and I are just friends," she says. "We've never, you know, done anything. I know it must seem like it, it must be hard to believe, that's all."

"I don't think at this point it would make sense to lie. It'd almost be impossible. And anyway, you and Charlie are obviously together?"

"We're just friends."

"With benefits, right? That's what they say? Or was that a onetime thing?" Claire says. "When we walked in on you?"

"Do you care?"

"No," Claire says.

"Here's what matters now," ABC says. "Don and I are just friends. That's all I intend, even with all this upheaval. He loves you. You guys have such a good life. Take your time. You don't need to decide anything."

"It's not that good a life."

"What do you mean?" ABC asks. "I mean, you have such a great family."

"I don't think I've loved him in a long time."

"But he-he really wants to make it work."

"Yes," Claire says, flatly. "But do I?"

JULY 2,.

93 DEGREES.

Everything that Don Lowry takes to the home of Ruth Manetti fits, conveniently, into his pickup truck, which he and Charlie had unloaded the day before with minimal effort. Don is proud of the way his family behaved during the relentless heat and stress of moving day-the children had been good humored and optimistic (big new bedrooms and a sparkling pool helped a great deal), Claire had been even and efficiently pleasant, and Charlie and ABC had simply done a lot of lifting, using the strength and energy of youth-they both looked radiantly sweaty all day. And now, it is midafternoon and Don is setting up his own room for the first time in his adult life.

There is an empty guest room at the Manetti house: years ago, the attic had been converted into a guest suite-a small bathroom with a shower stall, a double bed, an easy chair, a small desk, a chest of drawers, and an empty closet awaited Don Lowry.

"Whatever you do, keep it away from the children," Claire had said the day before they moved.

"What? Keep what away?" he'd asked.

"You and ABC. Whatever you have going on there," she'd said.

And Don had replied, "I think you're the one who needs that reminder, Claire."

The night before, he'd had a dream, and woke up before dawn in a kind of blistering agony. He had dreamed of Claire making love to Charlie. She'd been flat on her stomach on a bed, Charlie f.u.c.king her from behind. Don had been sitting behind a large desk, looking, mainly, at his phone, trying to ignore the s.e.x act taking place in front of him. And then the dream turned into a nightmare when both of his kids walked into the room and started howling with sorrow. It made him sick; he woke up puking into the trash can by his bed.

He knows that Claire will be the first of them to break the bonds of marriage-if any of them are left in any sense other than legal ones. Claire simply had to ask Charlie Gulliver to f.u.c.k her and he would. Why wouldn't he?