May We Be Forgiven

crisp.”
    “Does anyone use an actual pumpkin to make pumpkin pie?” I ask.
    “No,” she writes.

    M r. and Mrs. Gao arrive, carrying a hot turducken, which they deep-fried at the restaurant and brought directly to us.
    “I have no idea what a turducken is, but I like the way it smells,” Madeline says, welcoming them.
    “We don’t know either,” Mrs. Gao says. “We saw it on TV and they said it was very American. We ordered it online.”
    Ricardo’s aunt and uncle come in with a gigantic sweet-potato-and-marshmallow casserole and an enormous glass bowl of ambrosia. As a way of saying hello, Ricardo gives us a long demonstration of what he’s learned on the drums.
    Ching Lan and her parents have taken the train from New York, carrying big bouquets of flowers and Lucky Break Wishbones for the children. “You know how turkey have only one,” her mother says. “Well, now you can have as many as you want, spread lots of good luck. We sell them all week in the deli—very popular.”
    With each new guest, introductions are made all around. In the middle of it all, Ashley descends the stairs wearing her dress from Colonial Williamsburg along with the shawl and head covering that Sofia got her for the bar mitzvah. She has become increasingly religious, defining herself lately as “Orthodox.” I accept the notion as a phase, a heartfelt adolescent identification offering her comfort, and, I hope, part of the progression towards a healthy sense of self.
    “I want to light the Thursday-night candles and pray,” she says.
    “There are no Thursday-night candles,” I say.
    “But Aunt Lillian and Jason have never seen me do the prayers.”
    “I hear you, but today is Thanksgiving; the day belongs to our Christian brethren. Would you like to say grace?”
    “Let Cy or Ricardo say grace, but I want to speak at the table.”
    “About what?”
    “I’ll prepare something,” she says, going back upstairs.
    “Okay,” I say.
    Jason and Lillian arrive with the famous cookie tin, laden with product.
    “I taught Jason how to make them,” Lillian says proudly.
    “We did it together last night,” Jason says. “Now we can have cookies anytime, as many as we want.”
    “Are you saying you don’t need me anymore, that you only wanted me for my cookies?”
    “Mother, I am saying that I am glad you trusted me with your secret recipe,” Jason says.
    Lillian looks around. “Where is your mother? I thought for sure she would be here—I was looking forward to our rapprochement.”
    “She and Bob are going out with friends,” I say.
    “That seems strange, doesn’t it? You making a holiday dinner without your mother?”
    I make no mention of my anxiety about what would happen, or how I would introduce Madeline and Cy to my mother and Bob. Who would they be to each other? Would there be a fight for turf?
    “Well, Bob’s children only invited him but not Mother to their Thanksgiving, and their feelings were hurt,” I explain. “Of course, I invited them both to join us, but as my mother put it, ‘I don’t want to burden Bob with the complexity of family, he’s suffered enough. We’ll go with friends, there’s an early bird at a local place. The minivan will take us from here; we’ll have a good time.’”

    B efore we sit down to dinner, we take lots of pictures—group shots in the living room. Almost everyone has a camera or a phone, so we take turns, some friends and some family.
    “Should this be our Christmas card?” Madeline asks Cy.
    “What’s with all the Chinese?” I hear Lillian ask Jason, as we make our way to the table. “I thought he got divorced?” She takes her seat at the table. “Is he running a boarding house?” she mutters. “It’s like a freak show, a random collection of people.”

    I am at the head of the table, bearing witness. I am thinking of Sakhile and the e-mail he sent this morning: “When the road narrows, the guy to the rear of you has the right of way.”
    I am thinking of George and his proctitis in prison and wondering what they’re serving for Thanksgiving dinner an hour north of here. I am thinking of Cheryl and her family. I am thinking of Amanda, wondering if she is in this country or out of this world, and of Heather Ryan’s parents having this first holiday without her, and of Walter Penny likely out for a long run before supper.
    Stay, I tell myself, as I take a breath. Stay here, in the moment. And I breathe again—deeply. I think of