"Mommy's helper's."
Claire set the catalogue down. She did it carefully, squaring it on the pile, and then she got up onto her knees.
"Okay, sweetheart, enough."
Her voice was light, but it was the light voice she used on a horse that was about to blow up, and Wade had been married to her for thirteen years and knew it. He put both hands on his knees.
"What helper?"
June looked from one of them to the other. She had not yet understood that anything was wrong. She was seven, and to her the question had a simple answer, and she gave it the way she would have told him what color the sky was.
"The one who eats dinner here when you're gone."
The fire popped. Somewhere in the kitchen the refrigerator kicked on and hummed. Wade sat very still in his father's chair with the lamp light on the side of his face, and he did not look at June anymore. He looked at Claire.