IT IS LATE AFTERNOON by the time he pulls into the driveway beside his mother’s car. To his consternation his parents are sitting out front on the porch steps with drinks in their hands. They are not next to each other—a couple of feet of space separates them—but their drinks appear the same, made by the same hand—rum and tonics, he guesses from the golden-brown liquid in the glasses and the visible wedges of lime—and their postures are ominously at ease, languorous almost, which gives the contradictory impression of a certain jerry-rigged unity, some new amorphous history shifting beneath his feet, and for a long minute he remains in the car, as if protected, watching them through the windshield, unsure after all that’s happened that he can face the end of the day.
His father sets his drink on the porch. They are watching him, too, waiting for him to come out.
He closes the car door, and out on the lawn a cardinal flares like a struck match. There’s a rabbit frozen in green quicksand by the sight of him—can’t go forward, can’t go back. And he understands. Feels it all too much, can no longer defend the position; whatever armor he had in that department is gone. He is skinless. He takes a few more steps. The sun is going down.
His mother smiles anxiously. His father shakes his head as if to ward off disbelief.
Because he suddenly understands that it is meant for him, Sam sits down in the space between his parents.
A long moment passes: the three of them, sitting in a row, looking out at the yard.
Then he feels his father’s arm around his shoulders. No more than that. And he is undone.