Our neighbors, the sensory details of their expensive summer clothes suddenly looking cheap under the flashing emergency lights, began to back away.

Mrs. Gable lowered her wine glass, her hand trembling so much the Pinot Grigio spilled onto her linen pants.

“Arthur, what is happening?” Mother asked, her voice cracking as she reached for Father’s sleeve.

Father shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the shaking.

“Nothing is happening,” Father said.

“It is a misunderstanding.”

The heavy iron latch of the side gate clicked.

The gate swung open, scraping against the flagstones.

Two police officers in dark blue uniforms walked into the backyard.

The heat of the late afternoon seemed to press down on us, heavy and smelling of chlorine and cut grass.

The first officer was a tall man with a silver mustache and a leather duty belt that creaked with every step.

The second officer was younger, her eyes darting across the gathered crowd, taking in the swimsuits, the half-eaten catering platters, and the tension.

“Afternoon,” the older officer said, his eyes scanning the patio.

“We received a call regarding a domestic disturbance and potential child endangerment.”