Winter Garden

“You made dinner?”

“I reheated it,” Nina said, leading the way into the dining room.

Mom looked around at the ravaged wallpaper, still smeared with streaks of blood that had dried black. “Let us eat at the kitchen table,” she said.

Nina hadn’t even thought about that. “Oh. Sure. ” She scooped up the two place settings and put them down on the small oak table tucked into the nook in the kitchen. “There you go, Mom. ”

Meredith walked in then; she noticed the two place settings and her face scrunched in irritation. Or maybe relief. With Meredith it was hard to tell.

“Do you want to eat with us?” Nina asked. “I thought you’d need to get home, but there’s plenty. You know Mom. She always cooked for an army. ”

Meredith glanced through the window, up in the direction of her house. “Sure,” she finally said. “Jeff won’t be home tonight . . . until late. ”

“Good,” Nina said, watching her sister closely. It was odd that she’d stay for dinner. Usually she all but ran for home when she had the chance. “Great. Here. Sit. ” The minute her sister was seated, Nina quickly set another place at the table and then got the crystal decanter. “We start with a shot of vodka. ”

“What?” Meredith said, looking up.

Mom took the decanter and poured three shots. “It does no good to argue with her. ”

Nina sat down and picked up her glass, holding it up. Mom clinked hers to it. Reluctantly, Meredith did the same. Then they drank.

“We’re Russian,” Nina said suddenly, looking at Meredith. “How come I never thought about that before?”

Meredith shrugged, clearly disinterested. “I’ll serve,” she said, getting to her feet. She was back a few moments later with the plates.

Mom closed her eyes in prayer.

“Do you remember that?” Nina asked Meredith. “Mom praying?”

Meredith rolled her eyes this time and reached for her fork.

“Okay,” Nina said, ignoring the awkward silence at the table. “Meredith, since you’re here, you have to join in a new tradition Mom and I have come up with. It’s revolutionary, really. It’s called dinner conversation. ”

“So we’re going to talk, are we?” Meredith said. “About what?”

“I’ll go first so you can see how it goes: My favorite song is ‘Born to be Wild,’ my best childhood memory is the trip to Yellowstone where Dad taught me how to fish. ” She looked at her sister. “And I’m sorry if I make my sister’s life harder. ”

Mom put down her fork. “My favorite song is ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’ my favorite memory is a day I watched children making snow angels in a park, and I’m sorry that you two are not friends. ”

“We’re friends,” Nina said.

“This is stupid,” Meredith said.

“No,” Nina said. “Staring at each other in silence is stupid. Go. ”

Meredith gave a typically long-suffering sigh. “Fine. My favorite song is ‘Candle in the Wind’—the Princess Di version, not the original; my favorite childhood memory is when Dad took me ice-skating on Miller’s Pond . . . and I’m sorry I said we weren’t close, Nina. But we aren’t. So maybe I’m sorry for that, too. ” She nodded, as if in saying it, she checked something off her To-Do list. “Now, let’s eat. I’m starving. ”

Eleven

Nina wasn’t even finished eating when Meredith got to her feet and began clearing the table. The second her sister was up, Mom followed suit.

“I guess dinner is over,” Nina said, reaching for the butter and jam before Meredith snatched it away.

Mom said, “Thank you for dinner,” and left the kitchen. Her footsteps on the stairs were quick for a woman of her age. She must have been practically running.

Nina couldn’t really blame Meredith. As soon as their little conversational jumper cables had been used—the so-called new tradition—they had fallen into their familiar silence. Only Nina had even tried to make small talk, and her amusing stories about Africa had been met with a lukewarm response from Meredith and nothing at all from Mom.

Nina left the table just long enough to get the decanter of vodka. Thumping it down on the table, she said, “Let’s get drunk. ”