The Floating Cradle

Eight

"It's like your family's in its own telenovela!" Gilberto whispers gleefully as I slap some mayonnaise and Kraft singles on a couple slices of bread. I have no idea what tanta like to eat.

"Stop actin' so happy about it," I mutter, carrying the plate into the living room, where everyone is crammed onto various pieces of sagging furniture except for Blake, who has fled to mind the cows. I set the plate of sandwiches on the coffee table; Gilberto sets down a couple glasses of milk.

"Thanks guys," Allie says, grabbing a glass.

"Thank you," Jack echoes. He takes a few bites of a sandwich, swallowing without chewing. There is a brief silence where we all watch him until Allie gives us a look and our eyes scatter like a flock of birds, alighting on random picture frames and chair legs.

"Alright, look," Lyle says finally. He's leaning against the mantle, arms crossed. "Let's not pretend this ain't strange."

"Pretend what's not strange?" Allie counters, chin forward. "Seein' me again? Or seein' me with Jack?"

The room clenches. The tantum chokes a bit on his sandwich. Pete is making a bloody mess of his cuticles.

"Both," Lyle answers. "We're near strangers to each other, Al. Where're you even livin' nowadays?"

"New York," she says. "For the past three years. I'm in a PhD program at Columbia, studyin' epigenetics."

To an outsider, this could come across as shameless bragging, flaunting her laurels to the peeling wallpaper and her Carhartt-clad clan, but I hear the faint quaver in her voice. She spits the words out quickly, as though they taste bitter. She might have been more afraid to reveal her education than her marriage.

"Good for you," Dan says, unsmiling. He looks like shit; I wish he would go back to bed.

"And what do you do?" Felicity asks Jack.

"I'm in finance," he answers. He would appear entirely calm if not for one of his feet (ugh) tapping on the rug, an unconscious tic. He has wrapped them in a sort of oilcloth, perhaps out of politeness, but it doesn't cover the toes. My eye travels up his body, away from the offending parts, and I note his and Allie's sleek, quilted coats, which they have still not removed. A heavy watch on his wrist catches the afternoon light streaming through the curtains. In Allie's earlobes glint a pair of diamonds—real, as far as I can tell—like two ice-encrusted suns.

"Right. Y'all have a nice life for yourselves—great. So you thought you'd just drop by, spend a merry ol' Christmas on the farm, and then what, Al? Give Mama a stroke while you're at it? Revenge best served cold 'n all that?" Lyle breaks the umpteenth awkward silence, no longer satisfied with small talk.

"You know what sucks? Gettin' married and knowin' none of your family's gonna be there," says Allie, her voice tight. "We've had more than enough time to bury the hatchet. You wanna spend our entire adult lives not knowin' each other just because some stupid shit Mama did seven years ago?"

"Don't put it all on Mama," Dan growls from his corner. "You was a right terror."

"I had the right to be a terror, you mean!" Allie snorts. "The woman was tryin' to bury me here!"

Dan and Lyle both prickle at the implication, their protests overlaying like squawking crows, Felicity riding shrill and ineffectual on top like a whine of wind.

"No—stop—I'm sorry," Allie backtracks, hands up. "I'm over it, really, I am. I'm over defendin' myself. If, when Mama comes back, she wants us to leave, fine."

"Sure, there's probably a Fairfield Inn with a broom closet still available, it's only 3PM on Christmas Eve," the tantum drawls with bored sarcasm.

The front door slams and we all turn, waiting to see who will emerge from the kitchen. In stumps Blake, a down of snowflakes clinging to his silver-streaked hair.

"The heifer's calvin' now," he says.