“I don’t mean you, Edward. You have a right to be here. We all do.” The flush in Persis’s cheeks has subsided, and now she smiles with one corner of her mouth. “After all, if I can put up with your mother...” She ends her sentence in the exaggerated tones of a mock martyr.
“Gee, thanks, Pers’,” says Lily. “And after I showed you how to make that artichoke crap.”
Persis laughs. “Thanks for reminding me what I do like about the arrangement, as odd as it is. How else could I learn to make ‘artichoke crap?’”
“Is that ‘make artichoke crap?’ or ‘make an artichoke crap?’” Leo asks.
“Arty-cap, arty-cap,” the toddler interjects, tapping her spoon on the table.
“You can lead an artichoke to butter, but you can’t make it crap,” says the chess player, and everyone groans, but the mood around the table is now playful. They all pull their chairs closer, and the children resume their wriggling and talking. Second helpings are passed around. Leo pours small glasses of Tuaca for the adults. He gives Ashley and the boys their own thimblesful of water with a minute drop of Tuaca in each.
“Let’s have a toast,” he says. “To family--” he gestures with his glass to Persis and Edward and the children--“and to friends”--he toasts the guitarist and the chess player. He raises his glass to Cara and Lily. “To family who become friends.” He pauses, then adds, “To friends who become family.”
“I think you’ve got it covered,” says Lily. “Can we just drink now?”
太太 Everyone tosses back the Tuaca, and there’s a little coughing and spluttering. Cara touches her watering eyes with the corner of her napkin. She clears her throat. “Heather, what was that word you used a few minutes ago?”
Heather tilts her head to one side. “What word was that?”
“When we were talking about...about wives. Tie-something.”
“Tai-tai.”
“Yes, that’s it. What’s that?”
“It’s a Chinese word. Tai-tai. First or head wife.”
“I guess that’s you, Cara,” Lily says.
“Not if it means ‘head wife,’” says Cara. “That’s Persis. Besides, she’s the only one of us who is a wife, technically.”
Lily makes a dismissive sound. “Oh, technically.” She plucks the last olive from the bowl in front of her. “Hey, Heather,” she says, “what’s the word for second wife?”
“I have no idea,” Heather says. She turns to the chess player. “Want to pass that dish of cranberries this way?”
Edward gets up and sets his plate in the sink. “Who’s ready for dessert?” A chorus of protests and groans answers him.
“We’ll clean up,” says Persis. “Why don’t you guys go make a fire, and we’ll have dessert in there in a little while.” She puts the toddler on the floor and begins stacking plates. Cara gets up to help her, and Lily finally rouses herself and carries the Tuaca glasses to the sink.
Heather goes to the shelves and takes out a thick book with Chinese characters printed on the cover. She carries it to a chair near the chess table, opens it on her lap, and, drawing a pen from between the pages, begins making notes in the margins. Her writing is thick and spiky, not unlike the characters on the book’s cover. Occasionally, she leans forward, calling for Leo’s attention, turning the book and holding it so he can see what she’s written. Once, she points to an illustration in the book, and they both laugh, their heads close together over the page.
In the kitchen, the three older women swiftly fall into a cooperative rhythm, clearing the room of its culinary debris. Dishes are scraped and stacked in foaming hot water; leftover food is cartoned and stowed in the capacious refrigerator. Persis snaps on a radio that sits on a shelf over the sink, and the three women hum along with the tunes that waver out over their work.
Finally, Persis takes two of the pumpkin pies from the tin pie cupboard in the pantry. She cuts them into wide wedges, burying her knife in the rich, fleshy filling. Fresh bursts of the smell of nutmeg flood the kitchen. Cara tops the first two slices of pie with whipped cream and carries them into the living room. “Who wants dessert now?”
Edward and the guitarist are already in place near the fire. Leo stands and stretches. As he moves away from the chess board, his opponent looks up from deep concentration. “Hey, what about the rest of the game?” the young man says.
“Heather’ll finish it for me,” Leo answers over his shoulder. “Won’t you, Sweetheart?”
Heather looks up from her book, reaches, and moves Leo’s queen, as if randomly choosing a new position for her. “Checkmate,” she says, and closes her book. “Now, pie.”
The group ranges itself around the fire, balancing dessert plates on knees and the edges of furniture. Cara sits on the raised hearth of the fireplace, warming her back. She holds a bite of soft pumpkin in her mouth, letting it slowly dissolve before swallowing it. “This is so good.”
“Did you know that Leo made it from his own pumpkins?” asks the chess player.
“Yes, I heard all about it.”
“Is there anything he can’t do?” the chess player murmurs to the guitarist. The two young men shake their heads and continue wolfing pie.
