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boombox is still playing the same diddle diddle, or similar diddle diddle—and he and Jean walk out to the road to watch them off. When the convertible disappears around the corner, Jean says, "I think I'm going to go too."
    "Say again?"
    "If you'd like to have a little time with Mel and Roger," she says, "you could go pick them up while I get their stuff together."
    "What do you mean—you're leaving todays Willis tries to put the right English on this to make it sound like disappointment.
    "I just don't see what's in this for either of us. You might as well have the place to yourself, which is obviously what you want."
    "But this is your time off too."
    "That's right. And I've worked really hard for it, and I really need for it to be restful. Or dare I say fun? If that's even a possibility anymore?"

    "But what about the kids and their weekend?" Willis says. Telling himself Shut up shut up shut up.
    "Oh, well I'm glad you're so concerned^' she says. "I think I'm going to take them camping overnight. To the place we went that time. That you hated. The state park? And I would really appreciate it if you could be too busy to come along."
    "Camping for one day? Haifa day?"
    "That's the time we have."
    "What do you plan to do with them once you get them there?"
    "Swim," she says. "Throw a ball. Cook hot dogs. You know, normal things. I know you have nothing but contempt for all that, so you can do what you want for a change and not be bothered with us. I'm hoping it'll cool me out enough to m^aybe be able to deal with the trip back. And getting them ready for school on Tuesday. And —you know."
    "Sleeping in a fucking tent with two kids is going to cool you out?"
    "Right. But see," she says, "I like being with them."

    While Willis is picking up the kids, Jean searches the bedroom closet for the down-filled sleeping bags Carol gave them when they got married. Now they seem like a bad fairy's wedding curse: May you always sleep apart. The kids' sleeping bags are in Chesterton; she'll let them have these and make do herself with a couple of blankets.
    She stows bags, blankets and three pillows in the back of the Cherokee, then goes into the woodshed for the tent—just in case all the lean-tos are taken—and the cooler, a red-and-white Igloo, which smells like something died. Or so she'd say if she were telling somebody; all it really smells like is a cooler that hasn't been used all summer. She brings it into the kitchen and cleans it out with Pine Sol. She wishes she could stop saying things she doesn't absolutely mean.
    Actually, taking the kids camping is about the last thing she wants to do. But hanging on here—well, it's not that she couldn't do it, because what else is her life about? Yet if only they could have just one moment, one image to take away of summer and family, one smell of campfires and pine trees . . . Pathetic. And her little speech about hot dogs: what was that supposed to do—bring Willis to his knees? Well, they will cook hot dogs—she'll pick up some vegetables to grill for Mel—and there must be a ball someplace that Rathbone hasn't ruined.
    So stupid. She should have seen all this coming. Like his Prince Hamlet period when she was pregnant with Mel—no, even before that. Right from the first. But: towels. She has to remember towels. And something to sit on at the beach—another blanket? And her bathing suit, which is where? {Their suits they took with them to the Bjorks'.) Flashlight. Bug stuff. Sunscreen. She could kill him for making her do this. Except it's her idea. Camera: to carry out the pretense that this will be something they'll want to look back on. Still, it should be fine, right?

    Cook hot dogs and go swimming? They'd probably think it was weird if their father was there.
    Willis finds everybody down at the pond. The Bjork kids—Nelson, Frida and little Amina, the adopted one—are out in the inflatable boat, yelling. Mel's sunning on the dock, bikini top unfastened. Roger's at