Jennifer and James went into the fray, untangled and soothed, calmed and hugged. Ana took a drink of her wine. Midsip, she recognized that her isolation might appear unsavory, and she reached for a coffee table book on an “Edvard Munch and the Uncanny” exhibit, as if to appear preoccupied.

“We saw that show in Vienna,” said Mike, leaning across, shouting over the diminishing din. “A bit dark for me. I bet James would like it.” Ana flipped to the back of the book, stopping on an etching by a German artist she had never heard of named Max Klinger. She recognized one of the German words in the title, Kind, and her body stiffened. A woman in a full garden, carpeted with grass and rimmed with furry bushes and tall trees, lay resting on a bench, her eyes closed. Beside her, a hooded baby carriage. But the carriage was empty, the blankets had tumbled onto the ground. A path from the blankets, trampled by feet, revealed a figure in the distance, walking away from the mother. In his arms was an unfurling bundle, too small to be deciphered, white and unseen. Ana put her finger on the path, traced its line. She felt, again, that strange flutter, a feeling of ascension.

James and Jennifer had been successful. When the screams had slowed to whimpers, and the whimpers to whines, the two girls curled up on either side of their mother like cats. Jennifer stroked the head of each: “There, there. Silly queens.”

Ana put the book down on the table. She wondered if the girls had seen it. It seemed to her now as inappropriate as pornography. She drank her wine quickly.

“Uncle James, how come we never see you on TV anymore?” said Sophie.

James pulled Finn a little closer.

“I got fired,” said James.

“On fire?” asked Finn, and everybody except James laughed.

“Why?” asked Sophie.

“That’s a complicated question.…” interjected Jennifer, but Mike tilted his head, as if equally curious. Ana felt her body reassembling into something normal, the effect of the picture beginning to cease.

“It’s okay, Jennifer,” said James. Addressing Sophie, he said: “I’m too old for TV. It’s a job for young people. You should be on TV.” He leaned over and tickled her. She laughed. Ana had never seen him so engaged with his nieces.

“I know. I could be on TV,” said Sophie.

“Sophie was amazing in the Thanksgiving play. I know all parents think their kids are great on stage, but it was really striking. The teacher said she has a natural aptitude for theater,” said Jennifer.

“Now we’re adding acting lessons to the roster,” said Mike, in the part of exasperated father.

“I played an aboriginal person,” said Sophie. Ana laughed.

Sophie snatched a remote control from the coffee table. She hit a button and a large, wood-framed abstract painting—red and blue swirls on red and blue swirls—moved to the side with a gentle whoosh. A large flat panel TV appeared.

“Jesus, Mike, how James Bond,” said James.

“I know. It’s extravagant. But now or never, right?”

“Sophie, we don’t need the TV on,” said Jennifer. “You can watch upstairs if you want.”

But Sophie clicked, and the TV came to life. There, across the screen, was James’s former colleague, Ariel, each strand of her long straight hair clearly outlined with the perfectionist brush of high-definition television.

“I worked with her—” said James.

“What? Is this your show?” asked Jennifer.

Mike said, “Sophie—turn it off—”

“No! Let’s see Uncle James!”

Ariel was sitting in a hotel room across from a famous singer, a block-headed young man with one raised eyebrow.

“Who’s that?” asked Ana.

“The new Frank Sinatra,” said James.

“Really?”

“He thinks he is,” snapped James.

Ariel was breathless. “Just tell me, seriously—is this song about any particular girl? Or is it about girls in general?”

“This is news?” James shouted. “This is documentary?”

The singer chortled, winking and shifting in his seat, his nonanswer running atop the video clip: the singer in the rain, embracing a tall blonde. “What can I say? When love hits you, it hits you!”

“This is a fucking national news program,” said James.

“James, watch the language—” James turned from Mike’s pious face.

“Soph, turn it off—” said Jennifer.

Ana placed her wine carefully on the table. On the screen, Ariel threw back her head and giggled. Jennifer grabbed the remote out of Sophie’s hand and clicked the TV to silence.

“You can’t be surprised, James. TV’s always been this way. You were just this unusual little exception,” said Ana. She gestured to the blank screen. “This is what people want.”

“People don’t know what they want. Give them shit and they’ll eat it,” said James. Olivia giggled into her hands.

“Jimmy! Language!” said Mike. The painting moved slowly and smoothly, until finally it had covered the entire TV with red blur.

At the door, Finn kicked at the stoop outside. As Ana buttoned her jacket, Jennifer appeared with a paper Whole Foods bag.

“Olivia’s too old for these,” she said. The bag rattled with puzzle pieces and Legos. Something made a few electronic grunts, then silenced.

This was how people did it, then—an ongoing exchange.

Mike appeared, put his arm around Jennifer’s shoulder. The girls had joined Finn on the porch. They, too, kicked at the leaves and squealed.

“Not in your socks,” said Jennifer, then rolled her eyes at the adults.

“Hey, Jimmy,” said Mike, clearing his throat, alerting James to the fact that a speech had been prepared. “Listen, if you need any—you know. If we can do anything for you guys. With Finn, I mean. It’s a big change. We have a little experience with this stuff.” Jennifer laughed loudly, nodding.

“Thank you,” said James. “It’s going all right, but thank you.” His brother was never good with tenderness. It didn’t suit him. James wanted to point out that they lived only a half hour from each other but got together maybe three times a year, so how much, really, could they help? But alongside that first thought, James found himself moved by his brother’s awkward gesture. He tried to picture a future of commonality, devoid of the decades-long strangeness.

He rode on this idea as they gathered and moved toward the car at the top of the circular driveway. James knew that Mike and Jennifer’s three-car garage was filled. A fourth vehicle—a Lexus SUV—sat outside. The surfeit of parking spaces seemed like mockery. It was the first puncture in James’s warm mood, but he refrained from commenting.

Jennifer called something from the stoop. All three were buckled in. Ana rolled down her window, cupped her hand to her ear.

“I’ll resend you the video card!” called Jennifer.

“Great!” Ana called back.

Finn repeatedly pressed buttons on the electronic toy, a counting game, with red and blue lights, and a robot voice: 1! 2! 3! They moved through the empty, wide streets, past the sylvan glade gardens, under the ancient trees. When they hit Bloor, the traffic thickened. Cranes and bulldozers sat unmoving by construction sites cordoned off with plastic, warning of disaster. Cars blew their horns at a taxi doing a U-turn.

“Did you get that video?” asked James.

“Yeah, I did,” said Ana.

“Me, too.”

Now was the time where they would usually dismember the evening for a solid hour or two. James would go first, noting how Jennifer referred to the girls as “Princess Sophie” and “Diva Olivia.” Then Ana would talk about the marble countertops, Mike’s crippling boringness. James might revel, once again, in the way that Jennifer had very specific opinions about very small things—the right temperature for drinking water; why Jay Leno is hilarious—but at the mere mention of politics, she left the room to fuss about in the kitchen. The kitchen. The excess.