"Would you please get Anne out of my house!?"

Rather uncharitable of my mother-in-law, I thought, but a perfectly understandable remark given the context. The whole of the afternoon, and all through dinner, Anne had been a total bitch to her mother.

Barbara rolled her eyes. Time for my wife to play Ms. Mediator again. I could see her irritation level was up. When Barbara got angry, she flushed from the neck down. Even with the top several buttons on her blouse undone, there was no end in sight. The warm red of the rash was heightened by the cool light blues and greens of the cloth.

I felt trapped there in the kitchen while all the pots came to a boil. It was like I wasn't supposed to be there, as though I was eavesdropping. But at least I had a sense of being part of the proceedings.

"Do something, anything! Say it's time for me to get some quality bonding time with my granddaughter! Tell her you to want to keep your mother off Death Row for premeditated murder!" She moved her hand a little too close to the knife block.

I was surprised that Anne still had some patience left in the reservoir. While being a cute, quick, and generally agreeable kid, Stephie was still at the age where she was convinced that the whole of the universe existed solely for her satisfaction. They had all those goddamn plastic horses out, which, I supposed, held Anne in the trance of a flashback. It almost made me queasy, how clear an image I had of Anne-the-little-girl cantering her herd of yore around.

I'd probably stolen the image from an old photo album. The only real difference was that age had filled out the knobby bare legs of her corral, and now they were sheathed in thin black cotton pants. The pants played nicely against her pull-over top, which I'd been admiring all day. It was a deep raspberry color I found intensely appealing. I would have killed for that shirt but for the feminine piping at the seams. Nor was the scalloped neck my style.

The question I dreaded the most was: "Daddy, will you play horsies with me?"

Think of Wayne-the-little-boy, surreptitiously biting the hooves off all his sisters' horsies. Given my lifelong love of horses, I was the worst companion for such a play. Of course, Stephie would consign me the mangiest of the lot, and then get furious when I didn't play the way she wanted me to play. My horses never wanted to go galloping across the plains performing dangerous deeds and heroic tasks. My sad lot was resigned to trudging slowly off to the dog food factory.

The evil me was true, but it had earned me last-resort status. Whereas Anne was ready to romp for hours. She looked around wildly after Barb informed her the three of us were going over to her place. "What? Why? But I'm having fun!"