A summer breeze drove the scent of charbroiling hamburgers and hot dogs into neighboring yards, lifted the dangling curtain of blue oilcloth that was spread over the long picnic table, sending paper napkins and plates flying. Alice’s mother, sisters and daughters reached hastily for them, collided laughing, then weighted the flyaway utensils with pickle jars and mustard pots before turning their attentions back to the babies—Grace’s six-month-old daughter and Becky’s six-week-old son—tented in mosquito netting, sleeping in the shade. Deeper in the yard, young voices rose and fell, shrieking, laughing, bickering; the swing chains and trapeze rings on the play structure clanked to the rush of children through them. “Look what I did! Bet you can’t do it.” “Bet I can.” “No, you can’t. You’re too little.” “Can!” “Dare ya! Dare ya, dare ya, dare ya!” “Mom!” The word was a singsong aimed at Twink. “Sarah’s teasing me. Make her stop.” “Sarah,” Edith admonished her eleven year old youngest, “quit teasing your cousins.
