My father used to work at the Island Dairy plant before he injured himself. He had an accident while sweeping the floor with a cheap broom — the plastic handle fell off mid-sweep, and the metal rod, which was sharp and jagged at the end under the plastic cap, slipped and punctured his forearm, just past his wrist, severing a tendon and leaving him with numbness in three of the four fingers of his right hand. He’s since gone on disability, which has significantly cut the household income even though he was only a few years away from retirement anyway, and now he stays at home and helps my mother track promotions for her Candy-of-the-Month mail order business. We’re all self-made people out here on Linden Street.

He’s doing better, I tell Trevor. He’s starting to write with his left hand. It’s almost as good as his right. You can only tell on some letters, because he writes them backwards.

What letters does he write backwards?

I think about it. S, I say. And N.

Trevor pulls out a ratchet set. Mom, are you sure you want to get rid of this? he says. You can use these, you know. These are good tools.

I don’t even know what that’s called, says Margaret. I wouldn’t know how to use it. I have my hammer and my screwdriver set and my little power drill, and I’m just fine with that.

I have a ratchet set, says Bruce.

I’m sure you do, says Trevor.

I’m going to make a coffee run, I say. Who wants coffee?

Oh, Meredith, I’d just love one, says Margaret. Cream and sugar, please.

Thanks for helping us out, Meredith, says Bruce. We sure do appreciate you being here today. He adds: Milk, no sugar for me.

Bruce is tall, and he stands with his chest raised. He’s in excellent shape for a man well into his sixties. His frame is classic strength. He has large hands that have seen some physical work, hands you feel you can trust. Bruce is not a heartless man. He has a good face. I don’t blame Margaret for wanting to move in with him.

Margaret says, Before I forget, Meredith, I’m almost out of my Artemis Powder.

I might have a jar kicking around for you, I tell her.

How’s that going? asks Trevor.

Business is good, I tell him. People don’t want to use chemicals anymore. Everyone is afraid of cancer. Then I stop, realizing what I just said.

Sorry.

Don’t be.

I didn’t mean that —

It’s okay.

Margaret has wandered over to the card table that’s set up on the other side of the yard. She rearranges piles of mismatched dishware, putting the large plates on the bottom, saucers and bowls on top. I watch her turn some of these pieces upside down over the lawn, dumping out the cherry blossoms that have collected inside. She looks at the mugs, and one by one shakes the petals out of those too. Then she straightens all of the mugs so that their handles are pointing in the same direction.

Sorry if I’m being a bastard today, Trevor says to me.

You aren’t really. It’s okay.

It’s because when I listen to myself talk, the words sound ridiculous.

I know, I tell him. I feel the same way.