Pass the Potatoes

Mom's rule was no politics at the table, and she said it to each of us separately on the phone the week before, in the voice she used when we were kids and she was telling us the car ride would be nice or else. My brother Neil and I hadn't spoken about anything real in about eighteen months. We'd texted. Happy birthday. Did you see Mom's hip thing. We'd been in the same room twice, both times with enough other people that we could stand at opposite ends of it and call it a family gathering. It started with a group chat and a link he posted and a thing I said about the link, and then it wasn't about the link any more, it was about who we'd each turned out to be, and neither of us liked the answer. Thanksgiving there were nine of us. Mom. Neil and his wife, Carla, and their two, who are in college now and were on their phones. Me and my husband, Dan. Aunt Jo, who is eighty-three and deaf in the ear that faces whoever's talking. And Carla's brother, who nobody had briefed. It was fine through the turkey. Football on in the other room, Mom running back and forth, Aunt Jo asking everyone's name. Neil and I talked about the drive and the weather and his truck, which had a thing. I could feel Dan's hand on my knee under the table like a brake. Then Carla's brother, who I want to stress had no idea, said something about the news. Not even an opinion. Just, "Did you guys see the thing." A question. Making conversation. And there was a pause, and in the pause I saw Neil look at me and I looked at him, and we both knew what the other one thought about the thing, and Mom said, very brightly, "Who wants more potatoes?" Neil said, "I'll take some." I said, "Pass them down, then." And he passed them down. That was it. That was the whole thing. He passed me the potatoes and I took some and passed them to Aunt Jo, who didn't want any, and Carla's brother realized he'd stepped in something and started talking about his dog.

But here's what I keep thinking about. When Neil handed me the bowl, he held onto it a second longer than he needed to. I felt it. The weight of it not letting go. And he said, quietly, under Carla's brother and the dog, "You okay?" Not about the thing. Not about the eighteen months. Just, you okay. I said, "Yeah. You?" "Yeah." Then he let go of the bowl. After pie, Mom was at the sink and I was drying and Neil was putting the folding chairs back in the garage, and Mom said without turning around, "See. Wasn't so bad." "No." "Your father used to say you two would either kill each other or bury each other." "Which one did he want?" "He said it depended on the day." I drove home with Dan not saying anything, which is one of his gifts. Somewhere around the state line I got a text from Neil. It was a photo of his truck's dashboard with a warning light on and the words "told you it had a thing." I didn't reply about the thing. I sent back "drive safe," and he sent a thumbs up, and that's where we are. That's not nothing. I don't know what it is, but it's not nothing. Christmas is at his place this year. Mom's already called about the rule.