Instead, he watched them, the women in his life. Madelaine was busy following a recipe for low-fat gravy—and by the scrunched-up expression on her face, it was not going well. Lina was setting the table.
He’d never seen such goings-on for a meal. Ma never worked hard at Thanksgiving, that was for sure. He unearthed a sudden memory of the holiday from his childhood.
“Who wants white meat?” He could hear his mother’s gravelly voice barking through the dingy darkness of the trailer. No one answered. A minute later, she stumbled from the kitchen, carrying two steaming Hungry Man turkey dinners, tossing them down on the brown Formica table. “Yours is on the counter, Angel. I couldn’t carry three.”
She hadn’t made it through the entree before the booze kicked in. Midsentence, she pitched face-first into the mashed potatoes and gravy. He and Francis had laughed until they cried, then carried their tin trays into the living room. Together they sat on the spongy sofa, eating, watching television, and talking.
Brothers…
“Dinner is ready.” Madelaine’s voice brought Angel back to the present. The misty memories of the past faded.
He blinked and looked at the table. Long and oval, it was covered in a white linen tablecloth. It was dotted with flickering candles and layered with platters of food. He moved away from the fireplace and headed toward the dining alcove.
Halfway there, he stopped. Splashes of color marred the perfect white of the tablecloth, and it took him a second to realize what he was seeing. There were three sets of multicolored handprints on the fabric. At one end of the table, on either side of the white and burgundy china place setting, were two navy-blue handprints—and painted carefully alongside was the name and date, Madelaine, 1985. To her left, a tiny red set that read Lina.
At the head of the table, stark and alone, a yellow set. Francis.
Across the table, Lina’s gaze met his. “We … we did these a long time ago. I didn’t think …”
Angel noticed his own place setting beside Madelaine’s. There were no handprints, of course, just pristine white linen on either side of his plate. It made him feel ridiculously out of place.
Finally Madelaine emerged from the kitchen, and she was carrying ajar of green paint. She caught his eye and stopped. He couldn’t help noticing the pallor in her cheeks and the gentle tremble in her lower lip. “It’s a family tradition,” she said softly. She gave him a tender smile. “It’s a little messy.”
He took the paint and brush from her hands and wordlessly painted his palms, then, carefully, he pressed a hand on either side of his plate. When he was done, he stared down at his work, at the whole table, and felt as if he’d finally come home.
“I’ll paint 1996 above your hands after dinner,” Lina said.
Angel went to wash his hands, and when he came back, Madelaine and Lina were both seated. They were both staring at Francis’s handprints at the head of the table, at his empty place.
It hadn’t occurred to Angel how hard this would be for them—this first holiday without Francis. It should have, but it hadn’t. Quietly he took his seat.
Silence settled in around them, leavened the mouthwatering aromas. “You both are lucky,” he began softly. “You have so many memories of him, and you’ll never lose those. Your tradition has brought him to this table with us, and he’ll be here forever, his spirit in those crazy yellow fingerprints.”
He heard Lina sniffle and saw her wipe her eyes.
’There are so many things I need to say to him and to you, but we’ll have to do it one day at a time, one holiday at a time. For now, let’s be thankful that we’re here, together. It’s what Francis would have wanted.”
Madelaine looked up at him, smiling across the table, and reached for his hand. “I guess it’s up to you to carve the turkey.”
He felt the ghost of his brother leaning over him, breathing against his ear as he reached for the knife. A thousand things crowded in his mind, things he wanted to say, needed to say, but all that reached the surface was, “Come on, bro, show me how to cut up this bird.”
He was just getting to his feet when a familiar voice burst inside his head: Start at the breast, Angel. God knows, you should know how to do that.
Angel felt himself starting to laugh. When he looked up, Madelaine and Lina were smiling at him, their tears gone.
And he started to carve the bird.
December settled on Seattle in a creaking, moaning layer of gray and white. Thick clouds hung low in the sky, obscuring all but the hardiest rays of the weak sun. Bare, shivering trees huddled along the roadsides, the wind a whimpering lament through their empty limbs. Evening had just begun to darken the ho
rizon.
Angel felt a fluttering of nerves as he drove up to Madelaine’s house. He’d been here a dozen nights and mornings since he’d first made love to her, but today the place looked different. Frost glazed the brick of the walkway, sparkled on the old brown shingles of the roof. The cold made everything seem glassy and fragile.
He left the engine running and got out of the car. Puffs of smoke rose from the exhaust pipes and disappeared in the chilly air.
He strode up to the front door and stopped, adjusting the fit of his dark blue suit, and then he knocked.
Lina answered the door. She was wearing a green velvet dress with a white lace collar and a big white sash. She looked so beautiful. He felt a swift surge of joy that, after all the missed years and missed moments, he was here, reaching out his hand for this lovely young woman who was his daughter.