Katie was still wearing the flowered print dress Mother had made for her out of material she bought from the thrift store in South Haven. It was Katie’s favorite summer dress, light and airy and full of color. She was looking down at the hemline, which crossed her thighs, trying to imagine the pink carnations coming to life, when Mother walked in carrying the chicken.

“Here we are,” Mother said. She had a forced smile on her face. She put the platter down in the middle of the table. Steam rose from the chicken, and through it Katie caught a glimpse of Father’s face. He was already halfway through his third glass of whiskey. His eyes had reddened, and the lids were beginning to droop.

“Chicken,” Father muttered into his whiskey glass.

“Goddamned fried chicken’s all we ever get around here.”

Mother attempted to remain pleasant. “I thought you liked fried chicken,” she said, “and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t use that kind of language around the children.”

“The chiddren,” he slurred. “Probly ain’t mine anyway.”

“Richard!” Mother yelled. She rarely raised her voice; Katie shuddered. “How dare you!”

Father lifted his chin and turned slowly toward Mother.

“How dare me?” he said. “How dare me? How dare you, you bitch! How long you been screwing Olson, anyway?”

“Stop it, Father,” Kirk pleaded from Katie’s left. Blond-haired and blue-eyed like Katie and Mother, Kirk was tall and paper thin, wiry strong but teenage awkward. Father whipped his head around to face Kirk.

“Watch your mouth, boy,” he said, “and don’t call me Father no more. Go look in the mirror. You don’t look nothing like me.”

He turned back to Mother.

“Does he, darling? None of ’em look like me. They look like… they look like… Olson!”