In the hallway, leading up the stairs, we stop at a particularly somber portrait of Jesus. We’ve had it for as long as I can remember. It hung in our old house, and now it hangs in this one. He—capital H—is perfectly Caucasian with great cheekbones and a beautifully trimmed beard. He’s serious, staring off into the middle distance. “Who’s this handsome guy?” says Daisy. “Friend of yours?” “No, actually,” I say. “It’s Barry Gibb. My parents are huge Bee Gees fans.”
