When I was a kid, I used to hear that voice booming up from our downstairs to vibrate around my bedroom. And every time it would set off a small flutter of anticipation in my gut because it meant Penelope Morrow might be there as well. Later, when Pen stopped coming over with her mom, I still felt that flutter, that strange ache, because even though Pen wasn’t there, Anne could be counted on to tell stories of her daughter’s life. It was through Anne that I’d learn where Pen was, what she might be doing.
And they never had a clue.All of them thought I didn’t like Pen.That’s why they stare. They can’t figure it out.
The realization is disquieting. I feel like I’ve done Pen some wrong, dishonored her somehow.
My movements grow sluggish as I help Anne set up platters of cheese, cold cuts, and bread, and by that, I mean I show her where things are, and she arranges everything like art. It reminds me of the way Pen presents food; it’s not enough for it to taste good, it has to look good as well.
She sets everything on the round conversation table by the kitchen fireplace. And soon, we’re all tucked into the wicker armchairs that surround it. Dad lights the fire and settles down with a sigh. “Christ, I’m tired of traveling.”
“Be glad it wasn’t to Egypt,” Mom chides.
“Yeah, about that. Aren’t you all supposed to be sailing down the Nile right now?” Pen has the seat next to mine, a glass of wine in her hand. She’s composed now, and I’m gratified to notice, is leaning toward me in an unconscious manner of ease.
Anne heaves a long, artful sigh and selects a sliver of cheese. “The boat caught on fire and they had to cancel last minute.”Her once dark brown hair has been colored to pale honey, and she flips a length of it back in apparent annoyance. “Two years of coordinating our schedules for the right trip and some ass-munch ruins it by deciding to smoke in bed.”
“The bastard,” Pen puts in, lips pursed in a smile.
“You betcha!” Anne’s eyes flash dark sparks. “Never get involved with a smoker, Pen. They stink.”
Pen shakes her head, laughing as if to say her mother is being dramatic. But she says nothing more about the subject of potential future involvements with other men. I find myself clutching my beer bottle tighter as I take a long pull. Cold beer slides down my dry throat.
From across the table, I catch my dad’s eye. There’s a speculative glint in his that I want to ignore. But I find myself staring back.Yeah, Dad, it’s like that. And isn’t it the damndest thing?
Empathy flickers in his gaze as he gives the slightest nod of acknowledgment.
“So, we figured,” Mom is saying with a laugh, “that we’d drop in on our kids—”
“Given that they’re all together for the first time in years,” Anne adds, reproach coloring her tone.
“And have Thanksgiving together,” Mom finishes with a happy clap.
Pen and I donotshare a look. We have more restraint than that. But I feel it along my side where she sits. And I know she’s thinking similar thoughts.
Now, I love my parents. I love “Auntie” Anne. But the idea of all of them underfoot when I can barely keep my hands off Penelope is rough. Never mind the fact that all of them seem hell-bent on reminding Pen that our budding relationship is unfathomable to them. Which fucking irks.
Thankfully, I am spared having to say a word because Jan, March, May, and June come walking in just then, Jan’s and March’s arms loaded with fragrant tin platters of food.
March halts mid-stride and looks about at the ceiling. My lips twitch.
“Why are you looking around like that?” May squawks. “Did you let a fly in!”
March shakes his head. “Sorry, no. It’s just I could have sworn I heard thePsychomusic playing.”
Thirty-Five
August
After dinner, while the women claim the living room couches and a new bottle of wine, the Luck men head for the outdoors. This division isn’t the norm. But this is the first time Jan, Dad, March, and I have been together since both my draft and Jan’s accident. It feels necessary to be together alone to talk over football and our lives in the cold quiet of the night.
In the backyard, close to the placid gray waters of the lake, there’s a circular stone patio centered around a large round firepit. Jan sets up a couple logs and then starts a fire. Flickering orange light dances off his features as he stares down at the flames and gives the fire a poke with tongs. The logs settle with an impatient hiss and crackle.
March and I watch alongside him the way men are compelled to do whenever any sort of fire is involved, but as soon as he sets aside his tongs and sinks into an Adirondack chair, we follow suit.
The night is crisp and cold with enough bite of frost to fog our breaths. But the fire does its job, spreading a blanket of warmth over our legs and faces.
For a long moment, we sit silently. Well-fed brothers with nothing to do but watch the stars. The sound of footsteps has us turning. Dad carries a tray of beers lined up like frosty soldiers.
“Boys.”
