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word from Mrs. Jones' mouth, following the movement of her red-lipsticked lips as they pursed with each syllable. He would have noticed streetlights glancing off her blond hair and been disappointed that the rest of her was hidden underneath a fur coat. But not tonight. Not fifteen minutes removed from another brutal practice. It was almost Thanksgiving. The first match of the regular season was a few weeks away, the Hunterdon Central tournament not long after that.
    "... you certainly can't take good notes during class," Mrs. Jones said, shaking her head. "I'll say it again if I haven't said it a hundred times before, this Wrestling is ridiculous."
    The Lexus came to a stop along a corner property where Lake Road angled into Joanna Way. Bobby grabbed his backpack, buttoned his varsity jacket, and stepped out. He thanked Mrs. Jones for the ride.
    "Haven't spoken to your mother in a while," she said.
    Bobby smiled, faintly. "She's been working hard. There's a house in the Deerfield area she's trying to sell." That was a good lie.
    "It's a busy time for all of us," Mrs. Jones said. Almost sadly, Bobby thought. "Have her call me ... okay?"
    "I will."
    The Lexus sped away. Bobby swung his backpack to his shoulder and looked across the street at the Short Hills Club, where he could see four men playing paddle tennis. Bobby found the powerful lights above the courts comforting. During the late fall and winter, the lights shone through the barren trees and illuminated his bedroom as he lay in bed waiting for sleep. When he woke up in the dark morning and returned home at night, the lights were a kind of surrogate sun.
    Bobby jogged up the brick path around the house. Before reaching the driveway, he heard voices. He stopped in the shadows, peering through the side window into the garage.
    The ceiling lightbulb, yellow and dim, cast odd shadows on his father—a "fine attorney," as family friends often called him. His charcoal-gray suit hung limply off his shoulders, his tie undone. His eyes looked dark and tired. And Bobby watched Christopher, his mussed brown hair sprouting from under a crooked New York Yankees baseball cap, swing a lunch box back and forth.
    Bobby thought about waiting until his father and brother went inside the house. They wouldn't know he was home. He could be alone, at least for a few minutes. Then join them later. Maybe even after dinner.
    But Bobby was cold. And bruised. And tired. And even a little sad. Standing in the darkness wouldn't help that, so he stepped out under the garage lights. "Hey, Dad, didn't think you'd be home this early."
    His father unlatched the trunk of the Jaguar and pulled out a briefcase. "Your mother's working late." The trunk slammed shut. "We have to cook for ourselves."
    "That means pizza, right?" Christopher said.
    "No, not tonight," his father said.
    "But I want pizza really bad."
    "There are leftovers."
    "Stevie's family
always
has pizza for—"
    "Enough," his father snapped, "enough ... We'll eat what we have." He walked out of the garage. "Christopher, help your big brother bring in the garbage pails, then wash up. I have a phone call to make."
    Bobby watched his father disappear around the corner of the house to the back door, then he put a hand on Christopher's shoulder.
    "You okay?"
    Christopher nodded.
    "Don't worry about it," Bobby said. "We'll have pizza some other time."
    Together they walked to the end of the driveway and carried the empty garbage cans into the garage, setting them along the wall.
    As Bobby opened the back door to the kitchen, a car rushed down Lake Road. He looked in its direction, hoping the car would turn onto Joanna Way and up their driveway. But it continued on. He stood at the door for some time, listening for the engine of another.

5
    Plastic food containers sat on the dining-room table. Bobby spooned sliced potatoes onto a plate, then jabbed a piece of veal with his fork. Beside him, Christopher ate quietly, while at the other end of