Leo and Edward take places at the head of the table, and the next few minutes are filled with the clatter of passing plates. Leo stands to carve extra slices of turkey. Edward jumps up frequently to replenish serving dishes from the deep basins on the stoves. Those served begin eating without ceremony, and for some time, the plentifulness and quality of the food commands a respectful silence.
At last, with the first urgency of appetites slaked, the group grows more talkative. Leo lays his knife and fork across his plate and motions to Persis. “Sweetheart, hand me that book behind you.” Persis takes a slim volume from the sideboard and passes it down the table.
Leo clears his throat. “I have something I’d like to read to you.” He holds up the book. “Found this at an estate sale last year. Dated 1887. Never heard of the poet. Somebody named Koslowska. This is a translation.” He opens the book at a dog-eared page and reads:
The shawl of forgetfulness covers my face
I suck time through fibers
That fill my nostrils with dust
I choke on memory.
The mirzippu--
Leo looks up. “That word’s untranslated, but a footnote says it most nearly means ‘undertaker.’”
The mirzippu lifts the caul from my head
Peels my eyelids
I see my life as a day, an afternoon
You are all with me
You are all with me
We are shining
There are no partings, no diminishments
There are no partings, no diminishments
There is only this day, this moment
And there can never be death.
Leo closes the book and puts it on the table. No one says anything. Persis holds her small daughter’s hand and studies the tracery of tiny blue veins on the inside of the toddler’s wrist. Cara bows her head over her plate. The pressure behind her eyes is great, and her nostrils flare with the effort of a swallowed sob.
“Jeez, Leo,” Lily says finally. “Couldn’t you find something a little more macabre to read?”
“I like it,” says Heather. The two young men nod agreement.
Persis smooths the skin on the back of the baby’s hand. “It does seem a little dark for Thanksgiving dinner. And the children.” She glances across the table at her sons and older daughter. Ashley’s wide eyes give nothing back.
“I was focusing on the theme of togetherness,” says Leo. “We’re all here, this afternoon. Family and friends.” He pauses. “And, this is probably as good a time as any to tell you all that Cara--” He smiles at Cara, and his voice grows husky. “My dear, dear Cara is coming back to stay with us for a while.”
A brief glance passes between Lily and Ashley, no more than a movement of eyelids. Edward leans forward, speaking across the guitar player and Persis. “Welcome home, Cara. I’m glad you're here,” he says.
Cara looks up from her plate, not at Edward nor at Leo, but at Persis, sitting beside her. Persis draws herself up straighter in her chair, readjusting the squirming toddler on her lap. A slow, ruddy tide surges up her neck to her cheeks.
“Tai-tai,” says Heather. Her eyes gleam.
“It’ll be nice to have the company,” says Lily. She reaches for a bowl of Greek olives, selects one, and begins chewing carefully around its pit.
“When did you decide this?" says Persis. When she speaks, her voice sounds unused, as if it were early morning and her first cup of tea had not yet loosened her throat. She stares at Leo until he moves his gaze from Cara to her.
Cara touches the younger woman’s arm. “It’s only for a few months. A year at most.”
Persis doesn’t look at her. “When did you decide this?" she repeats. The children, who have been eating and moving restlessly, pause at their mother’s tone. The guitarist shifts in his chair. The chess player opens his mouth to say something to Heather, then closes it and examines his fork closely.
Leo shrugs. “Cara wrote a few weeks ago. I didn’t think you’d mind. After all, Lily lives here--”
“Lily never left,” says Persis.
Lily says nothing. She touches her silver bracelets, aligning them precisely on her arms.
“Leaving or not leaving has nothing to do with it. Cara is my wife--”
“Was,” Persis and Cara say together.
Leo holds up a hand. “Was my wife, and she’s still my friend. She needs our help now, and we have enough space. She can have her own room down here on the first floor. I’m clearing out the little office next to Heather’s room.”
He looks steadily at Persis. “And,” he says, “this is my house.” The simple statement holds a world of possession in it.
“Persis, I’m sorry--” Cara begins, but the younger woman stops her.
“Oh, it’s not you, Cara. I had a feeling you were coming back to stay.” Persis waves her hand vaguely around the table. “It’s just that this is getting so...so odd.” She sighs. “I mean, how many families have two ex-wives and a current wife all living together? Not to mention the children and assorted friends.”
