A. Homes: May We Be Forgiven

There is no right answer.

Between making “holiday punch” and looking for a platter big enough for the bird, I’m texting back and forth with Cheryl — I invited her and her family, but Thanksgiving is big in Ed’s world. His sister cooks, and Cheryl and Ed double up on their Plavix and Lipitor the week before. “Be sure to shove a lemon into the bird’s hole before you put it into the oven,” Cheryl texts.

“Too late.”

“Never too late,” she writes. “And before it starts to get brown make an aluminum foil tent — save the browning for the last 30 min — helps the skin stay crisp.”

“Does anyone use an actual pumpkin to make pumpkin pie?” I ask.

“No,” she writes.

Mr. 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.’”

Before 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 Londisizwe and his tea, and even though it has been months, I burp and the flavor repeats.

I look down the length of the table and see young and old talking, passing platters of turkey and stuffing, sweet and savory, embracing the season. Ricardo hands me the cranberry sauce. “Ashley and I made it,” he says, proudly. “We squeeeezzzed the lemons.”

“No such thing as too much gravy,” Cy says as the gravy boat circulates.

I look at Nate and Ashley and remember Thanksgiving last year, when they were curled in their chairs like spineless lumps, their electronics in hand, eyes focused on the small screens; the only things engaged were their thumbs. I remember looking at them with disdain as they sat inert, unaware of their mother enslaved in the kitchen, their father bloviating at the guests. And now Nate turns to the guests and inquires, “Does everyone have everything they need?” And Ashley asks Lillian, “Can I get you anything else?”

In the living room, the television is on — the movie Mighty Joe Young is playing, and I ask Nate to turn it off, and he does. I am surveying the situation, comforted that I can actually feel pleased. In fact, I notice that I feel nothing except benevolence — free-floating good will.

It is Thanksgiving and I do not fear the other shoe falling; actually, I am not even wearing shoes. There is a distinct absence of tension, of worry that something might explode, erupt, or otherwise go wrong. I note the absence of worry and the sense that in the past that absence of anxiety would have caused me to panic, but now it is something I simply notice and then let go — carrying on.

I am looking down the table thinking of everyone I’ve ever known; every hello and goodbye sweeps through me like an autumn breeze. I am porous, nonstick.

“A prayer?” Cy suggests.

Our heads are bowed.

“ Itadakimasu, ” Nate says in Japanese. “I humbly receive.”

“Our Father, for this day, for this food we thank Thee,” Ricardo’s aunt offers.

“My turn,” Ashley says, standing up before the aunt is done. “So, like, it’s been a really wild ride,” she says. “But there’s a book I read this summer and I wanted to share it with you.” Ashley then begins to read from a page she’s printed out:

I do not think of all the misery, but of the glory that remains. Go outside into the fields, nature and the sun, go out and seek happiness in yourself and in God. Think of the beauty that again and again discharges itself within and without you and be happy.