Chapter 22: Thanksgiving

My mother's dining room had never held so many people.

Judd and his wife sat on one side with a casserole between them.

My aunt had come from Erie with two pies, and my father sat at the head of the table with the carving knife.

Ezra sat beside me, in the chair he had used at every Caldwell holiday since college.

Under the tablecloth, his knee was pressed against mine.

My mother passed the potatoes with a smile that did not move.

"So," she said. "Ezra. You've been busy."

"Mom."

"I'm only saying. Judd told us a great deal last week."

Judd put down his fork.

He stood up and tapped his glass with his knife.

"Before we eat," he said. "I have something to say."

My aunt stopped chewing.

"I lied to my sister five years ago," my brother said. "I lied to my best friend. I did it because I was scared, and it cost them both."

His voice shook, and his wife put a hand on his back.

"I'm not asking anyone to forgive me at this table. I'm asking you to hear that I was wrong."

He turned to Ezra.

"You're my brother, Ez. You always were. If you want my sister, and she wants you, you have my blessing. I should have given it years ago."

Ezra stood.

He and Judd looked at each other, and then they hugged, hard, with their fists in each other's shirts.

My aunt began to cry into a napkin.

"Well," my father said, from the head of the table. "That was nice."

Everyone looked at him.

He laid the carving knife down.

"Ezra. A word. In the garage."

Nobody breathed.

Ezra put his napkin on his chair.

"Yes, sir."

I half stood.

"Sit down, Brynn," said my father.

I sat.

I waited in silence for several minutes, and then I got up and went through the kitchen to the door that led to the garage.

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