It was Kenny and Lisa’s turn for Thanksgiving. Their previous visit, Lisa had backed out at the last minute, Kenny flying down with the children by himself, and Emily was skeptical.
“How much you want to bet?”
“Nothing.” He thought she was teasing, or maybe just being wishful. “They already have their tickets.”
“You watch, she’ll find an excuse.”
“I thought you two were getting along at Chautauqua.”
“She didn’t say boo to me.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“It’s rude. She’s rude. Remember what she said about the pea casserole last time?”
He did, but only because she brought it up every few months. He refrained from saying he wasn’t wild about pea casserole either.
These tests of loyalty were never ending, and this was just the beginning. As Emily readied the children’s old bedrooms, she commiserated with Betty, whose former daughter-in-law enjoyed sole custody of her two grandsons despite the house being filthy. The unfairness of it nettled Emily. Over dinner she wondered what they would do if Lisa ever tried something like that, when, realistically, it was more apt to happen to Margaret.
“I don’t think we have to worry,” Henry said. “Anyway, we’re too old.”
“You think I’m too hard on her.”
“I don’t think anything.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’ve tried being nice, she’s just not interested. I feel bad for Kenny and the children.”
He agreed, though secretly, as with Margaret, he thought she was at least partly at fault. His own contribution was harder to quantify. In their feud, as in any needless unpleasantness, he aspired to a blameless neutrality, seeing both sides, calling for peace and restraint. In practice, instead of a referee, his impartiality left him a bystander, a witness to ugly scenes and an apologist after the fact. He remembered feeling the same way when they visited her mother in Kersey, the grudges of the past waiting in the old place like ghosts. He liked to believe he didn’t have any enemies, that if not pure of heart, he tried to treat everyone equally. That kind of passionate hatred baffled him. Most frustrating was how little had changed over the decades, and as Wednesday approached, instead of looking forward to their arrival, as he had all fall, he began to dread it like a punishment.
Tuesday they were in the middle of dinner when the phone rang.
“Honestly,” Emily said. With the election, they’d been plagued by robocalls, and he hesitated, fork in hand, chewing a bite of smothered pork chop, waiting for the machine to reveal who was intruding on their privacy.
The beep gave way to a staticky backdrop, a radio between stations. The voice that broke through warbled as if underwater, cutting in and out. “Henry, Emily, this is Jeff. I’m calling from the hospital. I just wanted to let you know Meg’s been in an accident. She’s pretty banged up but she’s going to be okay.”
Emily, being closer to the living room, beat him to the phone. “We’re here. What’s going on?”
“Put him on speaker,” Henry said, and then had to help her find the right button. They stood by, Emily clutching her napkin like a handkerchief. Drawn by the commotion, Rufus leaned against his knee.
She’d been driving home in the snow when another woman hit her. They both went off the road. It was no one’s fault—meaning, Henry understood, that Margaret hadn’t been drinking. The car was totaled.
“She’s got a broken leg and a couple of broken ribs. The doctor said her head’s okay, it just looks bad. The police said she was lucky she was wearing her seatbelt. I guess the other driver’s not doing so well.”
Henry wanted to ask if her “head” meant her face.
“What hospital are you at?” Emily asked, pen poised over a notepad. “Does she have a room number?”
“Not yet. Right now she’s having her leg set.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“You don’t have to come out.”
“I want to. You’re going to need someone to take care of things, and I’d like to see her. Is she awake?”
“They have her on painkillers, so she’s not all there.”
“That’s not good,” Emily said.
“They didn’t know.”
“You told them though.”
“I will. I only just got here.”
“Who’s with the children?” she asked.
As the shock wore off, Henry didn’t understand how it could have happened, and why now? Kenny and the children were coming tomorrow. Bitterly, as Emily went on about finding flights and renting a car, he imagined the whole Rube Goldberg chain of events that led to the accident—the cold front spawning snow, changing the flow of traffic, Margaret’s shift ending, the line out of the lot and then the random sequence of traffic lights putting her minivan in the wrong lane at the wrong time. A momentary carelessness, one or both of them traveling too fast for conditions. It was just more of her bad luck, and yet he was angry, as if someone more alert might have avoided it—and the drugs, another problem.
“This is the last thing I need right now,” Emily said after they’d hung up.
She held out her arms for him to hold her. Only then, in his embrace, did she let a muffled sob escape.
After a minute she sighed. “I have to go.”
“I know. It’s not the best night for it.”
“I’ll go standby. There have to be a dozen flights to Detroit. I’ll go tomorrow morning if I have to.”
“You can use our miles and go first class if it’s easier.”
“We’ll see.” She released him and headed for the stairs.
“Aren’t you going to finish your dinner?” he asked.
“I don’t think I can eat right now.”
“Should I save your pork chop?”
“I don’t care. Yes, save it. You can have it for lunch tomorrow.”
He tried a bite but the onions had gone cold, and he took his plate into the kitchen, Rufus following him, wagging his tail as if Henry might toss him a scrap.
“Go lie down.”
He needed to call Kenny and Arlene and let them know, though there was nothing they could do.
He fit the pork chops into a Tupperware sandwich holder like puzzle pieces, noting the marrow. One of his stranger points of pride was that despite playing football and going to war and once rolling a car in the desert, he’d never broken a bone. So much of life was chance. Embree died, he lived. It would never make sense to him.
The stove was a mess, the controls spattered with grease, the handle of the cast-iron skillet still warm.
“Leave it,” Emily said, hauling her coat on. He’d never seen her pack so fast, but knew better than to mention it.
On the way she gave him instructions on how to cook the turkey. “All you have to do is remember to put it in early and keep checking it when it gets close. It’s not that hard. Arlene can help you.”
He could read a meat thermometer. He was more worried about the mashed potatoes, his favorite. He had only the vaguest idea of how to make gravy.
“You’ll be fine. Just follow the recipe. It’s like putting together a bookcase.”
“I doubt that.”
“I wish I could stay and help. You’re just going to have to fend for a while.”
“I will.”
“I know you can.”
Beyond Carnegie it was dark, taxis whipping past, a black Town Car, not signaling. There were deer out here. The season started next week, the schools taking the day off. There’d been no reason to discuss the possibility, no time, but now, as he slowed for the exit, ridiculously, he wanted to go with her.
“You’ll have a good time with them,” Emily said. “Kenny will help, and Ella. I’m sure Lisa will be thrilled I’m not there.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is too true. Don’t let her bully you. She’ll take over if you let her.”
Even as he pledged to resist her, he thought it would be so much easier if she cooked.
Despite a police car stationed with its lightbar flashing and a cop in a reflective vest waving people on, the curb at departures was double-parked, the crowd at the counter mobbing the sidewalk. Henry had to wait for an opening to angle the Olds in closer. He stopped and popped the trunk. Before he could get out, a skycap had Emily’s bag.
She shrugged and gave Henry a kiss. “I’ll call you when I know what flight I’m on.”
“Good luck.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
“I’ll be fine. Give everyone my love.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you need money?”
“I stole two twenties from your dresser.”
They couldn’t part without saying “I love you,” a ritual by now almost precautionary, as if they might never see each other again. She turned to mount the curb and beckoned the skycap to follow, waving a last time before the sliding doors swallowed her.
A massive Escalade had blocked him in. Rather than wait, he shifted into reverse and swung his nose out. The speed limit was fifteen miles an hour, like at Chautauqua, keeping him from gunning it. He nodded to the cop guarding the crosswalk and headed for the exit, thinking he’d be back again tomorrow. As he piloted the Olds along the swooping ramp, a plane was taking off, its lights slicing through the clouds. He should have parked and gone in with her, made sure she could get something tonight, but she’d rushed him. He wanted to circle back and fly standby himself, surprise her in Detroit. She was a terrible driver, and even worse at night. He could imagine the police calling, saying she’d been in an accident, the irony foreseeable. He should have gone, she should have stayed home, but with Margaret involved the notion was inconceivable. Emily would always be the one who rescued her. He would always be the one who didn’t understand, the one who didn’t love her enough. He wanted to say it wasn’t true, admitting, finally, that there wasn’t time for them to start over.
On the highway the new tires sounded funny, louder, droning as if they were snows. It was cold enough. Beyond his headlights the darkness was solid, herds of deer moving invisible through the woods. By tomorrow the front would be here, making an even bigger mess of the holiday traffic. Their flight arrived midafternoon. The tunnel would be backed up for miles. He had to get gas. He had to heat up the lasagna and the garlic bread and throw together a salad. They were staying four days. Already he felt overwhelmed, and kept to the left lane, racing for the city as if he were late.