Baring his Teeth

We walk into the kitchen. It has a sliding door facing the back porch. It also attaches to the front foyer by way of a dining section. We don’t even get a chance to explain Claire’s whereabouts; an air of tension shuts us up the second we walk in. My parents’ coats and shoes are off, but their feet are firmly planted in the foyer still. They don’t notice us walk in.

Jake stands up from the dining table. “Come on in, Ted.”

My dad looks aggravated — he’s baring his teeth, which he often does, the way old Scots do. Jake takes a step closer and my mother takes a step closer to my dad.