“Jesus Christ,” his father said. “This whole family’s nuts.”
Biddy lay in bed with his eyes on the ceiling, listening to his parents prepare the manicotti they were going to take to Norwich for Thanksgiving dinner. He looked up into the lights and turned away blinded, red fluorescent streamers and curlicues twisting and whirling when he closed his eyes, and when he could see again he was calling signals for the snap and the Vikings were in punt formation with himself as the punter.
Over the hunched Vikings, Steelers massed, wedging into cracks, mentally laying down lanes of attack, waiting for the snap. Eleven sets of eyes, all watching and waiting to hit him as hard as they possibly could while he hung in the air with one leg extended and vulnerable in his kick. He received the snap and took his step and a half forward, trying to concentrate with the Steelers bursting through all over, and as he connected and the Steelers swept up and over him he rebelled, revolted, wrenched himself from the moment, and returned forcibly to his bed, crying out, his cry waking Stupid, who slept with him now on the floor by the door, and the dog shifted in the dark and thumped the rug reassuringly with its tail, leaving Biddy to roll over and whisper for it, grateful for the thumping and not knowing what else to do at that point.
He woke to unusually bright sunshine. Stupid was still thumping and his father was laying his jacket and pants out over his legs on the bed.
“Let’s go, Admiral Peary,” his father said. “The expedition’s about to begin.”
“What time is it?” he asked groggily.
“Time to get ready. Time to hit the ginzos. Let’s go. We’re supposed to be there by noon.”
Biddy climbed into his pants and sat at the edge of the bed, stroking the dog. Kristi went by, her mother trailing behind combing out snarls.
“Let’s go,” his father repeated. “I polished your shoes. They’re downstairs. And comb your hair. It looks like a rat’s nest.”
Sandy and Michael, his aunt and uncle, lived just north of Norwich on what Michael liked to call a kind of a farm. It was a new ranch house of a sort, with a garage on one end and a huge family room on the other, the whole structure spreading across the property lengthwise, with the land sloping away on both sides. Each time they visited, Sandy had a new addition to show his mother. And each time, his father said, his mother came away with a bug in her ass.
Behind the house a fenced-in corral ran up an easy grade to trails leading into the surrounding woods. Sandy and Michael had five children, three of them girls, each of whom had a horse of her own. There were rabbits as well, and ducks and cats and dogs. All this was fairly new.
Upon arriving at their house he said hello to everyone and slipped away in the confusion. The backyard was fulclass="underline" girls surrounded the captive horses and boys were slinging footballs back and forth across the uneven ground. He found himself in the den, a new addition. It resembled a ski lodge, with a pitched white ceiling supported by thick dark beams. There was a giant picture window and a new rug and sofa.
His father came in behind him. “Oh, Jesus,” he said. “Wait’ll your mother sees this.” He smiled. “Gonna go out?”
Biddy didn’t think so.
“Why don’t you see what’s on, then?”
He flipped the remote switch on the TV. He heard his father, back in the kitchen: “I saw it. It’s really something. Has Judy seen it yet?”
The picture rose up from the dark screen and fixed itself.
— We’ve only got a quarter, don’t you understand? What’s wrong with you?
Abbott hustled Costello off the chair.
— Well, a quarter. We can get something to eat.
— Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll order a turkey sandwich and a cup of coffee, see? And I’ll give you half. But if she asks you if you want anything, you say no, I don’t care for anything.
Biddy laughed, dropping to the rug and pulling a foot in close, crossing his legs.
“Hey, hey, crusher.” Dom reached down, shook his hand. “The Lirianos make the scene. Mickey’s out back.”
Biddy nodded.
“What’ve we got goin’ here?”
— You mean we’re going to put something over on her?
— No, no, we’re not putting anything over on her.
— Gonna try and slick her?
“Click this a minute,” Dom said. “See if the game’s on.”
He turned to a football field, pale green in the bright sun, with players milling around the sidelines, hopping up and down or high-stepping here and there. He switched back.
— Aw, go ahead, have something.
— Give me a turkey sandwich.
Abbott pulled him off the chair, both of them tumbling toward the camera.
— What did I just get through telling you?
— No matter how much you coax me?
— No matter how much I coax you. You just say you don’t want anything.
— I’ll say I’m filled up, that’s all.
— That’s all. We only got a quarter.
— I ain’t, but I’ll say I am.
— Well, say that.
“Biddy, come on.” Dom shifted in his chair. “I don’t need to see these two for any reason.”
“Let’s go,” an aunt called from the kitchen. “Everything’s ready. Call the kids.” They rose together, Biddy lingering to catch the end of Abbott and Costello. They left the television on.
Five aunts and four uncles — one divorce in the family — and a sweeping majority of the twenty-seven cousins as well, entered the dining room at once. The Lirianos, friends of the family, squeezed in besides. The adults would be seated at one long table, elbow to elbow. “This is nice,” Dom said as he edged in. “Camp Lejeune.”
The children were divided roughly into age groups along five other odd tables that spilled out into the front hall and kitchen: He stopped as he passed the main table: his aunts had suddenly moved to reveal the multitude of choices and offerings before him. Crystal and china serving dishes ringed the middle ground, clustered toward the center, supporting steaming areas of color: in the china the moist, rich green of mounded asparagus, the off-white of the cauliflower and creamed onions, the red and yellow of the manicotti; in the crystal the cool, isolated colors of black olives, cherry peppers, celery. Turnips lay beside yellow summer squash, brown gravy near the mottled stuffing. Rising from the center like an island at which these boats hoped to dock was the turkey, glistening and giving off heat and holiday smell. His mother was beside him, her hand reassuring on his hip. This was her world, not his father’s, and he touched her fingers with his own, wanting to communicate how much it meant to him. He was transfixed, and only under her gentle pressure reluctantly moved on, to unclog the aisle.
Cousins were still streaming into the room, laughing and arguing over seats. Kristi was sitting at the farthest table with four other girls her age. Mickey sat sullenly opposite Biddy. Louis was not there; in two hours Stratford would attempt to complete its undefeated season against Milford, and the team had gone somewhere to eat together or be together, he wasn’t sure which. Cindy was having dinner with Ronnie’s parents. She cruised briefly through his thoughts and he wished she were present, though he wasn’t sure why. He thought of Laura and Sister Theresa and the spelling bee, and focused on the water glass in front of him, draining all his thoughts into it, going blank.
His uncle told everyone to remember their seats and come up and get what they want this way, kids first, before the adults sat down. Dom, his wife noted, was already sitting.