The party moved indoors on account of rain. They had spelled secret codes in pearl necklaces, a rare shade of pastel orange, a broach of a beetle. Sandy said to Susan, “Life force chocolate,” and everyone nodded. Sandy had lost eighteen pounds in sixteen weeks, she had fluttered her eyelids in a car commercial. Later, Sandy would be featured on a foot fetish website and her prestige in the neighborhood would never recover.

The rain attracted frogs from a marsh at the far edge of the yard, a last attempt to regain ground lost to suburban sprawl. A stench would arise in the early summer and the cat refused to track birds into that area. Tom said, “Snakes,” and Mary would reply, “Spider monkeys.”

The children had been playing horseshoes until little Tommy caught one in the shin. Glenda had been the tosser and she ran off in tears after the incident. Tom had to organize a search party while Mary consoled the wounded tyke.

“No fair searching in the daylight,” Mack challenged Tom.

Tom replied, quite simply, “We’ll get to high ground and spot her from there. Or we’ll sweep her up along the way.”

Dwight, now 14 and just starting to shave, tried to salvage the game but was reprimanded for not wearing socks. New rules were put in place: No shoes without socks, no flip-flops, no loose chains, no facial piercings.

Mary calmed little Tommy and sealed his recovery with a kiss on the impact site. Dwight rolled his eyes and said, “Mom, he’d never make it in wartime with you fussing over a scrape.”

Mary saw the clouds approaching and scrambled for the grill. She shouted to Susan, “Where men go? Fire left unattended, meat go black.”

Susan responded, “Men look for girl. Bring back to serve.”

Mary lifted the trashcan lid and began banging a spatula on it, shouting, “Come and get it before the horseflies set in!” The men appeared in a group, Tom carrying Glenda on his shoulders and pointing to the roof of the house. Glenda nodded and produced Pixie-Stix from her back pocket.

The children had lined up before the grill and their hands were inspected for dirt before receiving the food. Hot dogs were popular. Casseroles were unveiled from Saran Wrap prisons and the tiki torches that ringed the patio were lit.

A phone rang from somewhere inside the house as the first raindrops fell. The adults moved under the small awning that jutted from the roof and promised that this cigarette really was their last, no doubt about it. The children moved further into the yard, aiming for the small, swampy pond at the far perimeter. Several of the parents called the children back, to no avail. The rest just watched.

The phone rang again and Mary wondered aloud if it was bad news because all her friends were already here. Tom replied, “Bad news doesn’t come over the wire anymore, this is the digital age,” and then excused himself to answer it before Mary’s imagination ran away with her.

Eventually the temperature dropped and the rain came for real. Everyone was hustled inside, the cat put out, and the television set to cartoons. Tom had forgotten to unplug the bug zapper and there was a sharp crack as the raindrops set in against it. Dwight volunteered to rush out for it but Tom nixed that idea, one hand still clawing at his collar. He suspected he might have picked up a tick out in the woods. Dwight casually popped open a beer and disappeared to his room.

The children, now unacquainted with fresh air, wanted to see the hornet’s nest that little Tommy told them about. They moved from room to room, hiding behind plants and large leather chairs. Little Tommy produced three cap guns and a cowboy hat from his closet and they set to work ridding the house of bandits.

Mary said to Sandy, “They’re like this every time it rains.”

Sandy nodded and fingered her necklace. She had bought it from a blind man on Lincoln Street in Hartford. She also bought a refrigerator magnet that showed the alphabet in sign language.

Brenda made a face entering the garage. Tom marched her over to the deep freezer and showed her his stock of steaks and pork chops before settling on the veal cutlets. She lit a cigarette and nodded her head at the sporadic laughter from the interior of the house. Tom shook his head and ran an admiring hand down the hood of his Lexus. It made a squeaking noise.

Peter, the middle child, entered silently and began to rummage in a box to the side of the door. Tom asked if he needed help and Peter shrugged.

“I can help,” Tom said.

“What?”

“I can help,” they said at the same time. “Jinx!” Peter shouted immediately. “You can’t talk until someone says your name, dad.” Peter produced a beaten Simon Says toy from the box and disappeared back into the house, calling, “You better not talk,” over his shoulder.

Mary was explaining to Blaire about the use of color in the Monet print that hung above the china cabinet. She made sweeping generalizations about color and brain activity while Blaire’s new baby tossed a bowl of dry Cheerios to the floor. Max was immediately on his knees to scoop them up while Grady, sensing a good opportunity, wound up and kicked Max hard in the rear. Shouting erupted and Mary tried to play referee.

The cartoons had now ended and the children were called into the kitchen to gather around the table. Little Tommy, still holding his toy pistol, was lifted into his father’s chair and everyone sang as the cake was brought in. He blew out six of the seven candles in one breath. Mary took pictures while the cake was cut, the flashes forming a grim counterpoint to the activity. It was like a bit of the lightning from outside had been transported inside. Little Tommy started crying and ran to the kitchen and tried to crawl into the cabinet under the sink. He’d gotten stuck there the year before so they always kept a close eye on it now.

After the presents were opened, Tom had to run to the store to buy batteries for the new gadgets his son had received. He took Dwight with him and they discussed the Red Sox’s chances that year.

“They’ve got no fielding,” Tom would say.

“They’ve got Herschfielder and Bradson at the key points. They’ve got no hitting.”

“They’ve got Tony the Tank and Billings,” Tom replied. “They’ve got some power in the middle. They’ve got no speed.”

“What about Janson? They’ve got no pitching.”

“They’ve got Baker and Frye and Franklin,” Tom said. “They’ve got no management.”

“But you’ve gotta love their chances,” Dwight said.

“Oh yeah,” Tom agreed. “I love their chances.”

They were in the grocery store when the power went out. They were in the pet care aisle and Dwight joked that he’d climb up the bags of dog food to get a clear view of what was going on. The manager of the store called everyone up to the front, by shouting, and then thanked them for coming and welcomed them to stay for fifteen minutes in case the power came back on, and then the store would be closed after that if it didn’t. Tom and Dwight drove home nearly in silence, sporadically debating with each other what batteries could be scavenged from their own home for the night. Remote controls were agreed upon but Tom drew the line at the smoke detectors.

“If there’s a fire,” Dwight reasoned, “the rain will put it out.”

Mary had candles lit in every occupied room when they returned. They had a menorah they’d received from a Jewish aid group that Tom had consulted for and this was on the middle of the dining room table, casting strange shadows that no one would acknowledge.

Blaire’s baby, once again, threw a bowl onto the floor. Mary chuckled and said, “Either he’s a picky eater or he really hates my carpeting.”

Tommy suddenly appeared in the dining room, nursing the side of his head and crying. He was only able to stutter, “Peter hit me back!” in disbelief of his own words.

The garage had become more popular with the lights out. There were no candles in here but Mary had lit the kerosene lantern they take on camping trips and it provided the most light of anywhere in the house. The smokers were huddled around a battery-powered radio, listening to the gory details of the storm ravaging the north part of the county. There was talk the temperature would go so low that an ice storm would develop. The smokers puffed and puffed, and then traded stories about the storms they’d lived through. Ainsley trumped them all with his teenage years in the Florida hurricane corridor.

The lights came back on just as the party was about to break for the night. When most of the attendees had gone home, Susan proposed opening a bottle of wine and playing Scrabble. Mary complied and said she’d return after putting the boys to bed. Dwight remained sitting on the couch, stroking his budding stubble, and watching music videos. Tom was assembling the desk that little Tommy had received from his godparents and Mary was eventually back at the dining room table, a Scrabble box and a legal pad in her hands.

The men soon muscled Dwight off the couch so they could watch ESPN’s daily recap while Dwight talked to his father about a good weightlifting regimen to put on bulk for football tryouts next year.

“Bulk is good,” his father agreed and then pointed out, “Speed will also get you there anytime. You need to think about it.”

Laughter came from the dining room and Tom said to the assembled men, “They’ve gotta be drawing up diagrams to castrate us. That’s always what’s going on when women laugh like that.”

Dwight escaped into the back porch, which was screened, and began to go through boxes looking for pictures of his own seventh birthday party. He could clearly remember having one, it was the first time he ever saw a deer. The deer had antlers and he shot it with a toy raygun.

The rain slowly eased up and the lightning stopped altogether. The women and their husbands trickled out one at a time until Tom and Mary were the only ones left awake. They traded a glance and then Mary motioned around the room at the discarded paper plates with napkins, the half full plastic cups, and she said, “Tomorrow for sure.”

Tom agreed and then placed his hands on his hips and asked, “You need a piggyback ride up the stairs?”

“There are no stairs, Tom,” Mary grinned.

They held each other and looked, Tom up and Mary down. Eventually, their eyes met in the middle.

Tom remembered the road trip the family had taken just a month before. The boys were in the back, counting the phone poles they saw as they drove. Dwight refused to play and crawled into the back of the minivan, into the storage area with the suitcases. He opened the cooler and had a tunafish sandwich, washed down with grape soda. Peter and little Tommy counted the phone poles that passed on their respective sides. Anytime they passed a church, they had to start the count over.