“She called you,” I said.
“Last night, yeah. She was real nice about it. Said they had a lot of family coming and didn’t want me to feel overwhelmed.” He paused. “I figure she’s probably right. You know me, I’m not much for a crowd.”
My father was not not much for a crowd. My father had spent five decades on a factory floor and could talk to anyone within three minutes of meeting them. He was not making an excuse for himself. He was making one for her, because that was the kind of man he was, the kind who absorbed other people’s unkindness and repackaged it as something that made sense.
“I’ll call you back, Dad,” I said.
I walked into the dining room.
Karen was arranging silverware with the focused attention she brought to things she cared about, each piece placed with the precision of someone preparing for an audience. She had the good tableware out, the set that lived in the buffet and only came out for occasions she considered worthy of it. She did not look up when I came in.
“Why did you tell my dad not to come?” I asked.
She set down a salad fork and turned to face me with the expression of a woman who had anticipated this conversation and was ready for it.
“Rick,” she said, “my parents are particular. You know how they are. Your father smells like an old garage and I am not going to spend Thanksgiving apologizing for that to my mother.” She said it the way you say something you have considered and arrived at cleanly, without guilt, as though she was simply reporting a reasonable decision she had made on behalf of the household. “He’s not coming.”
I looked at her for a moment.
