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Michelle's dad pulled me aside into a corner of the dining room after he'd set down his burden, and not for a fatherly embrace. “John, I hope that Phillip One Horse isn't coming for dinner today,” he said, one hand massaging my shoulder in a way I particularly disliked.

“No, sir,” I said. “I haven't been able to get in touch with him since Thanksgiving.”

“Well,” he said, nodding, “I think we all know where he's crawled off to. Or into.”

“Daddy,” Michelle said, for she had seen the unusual tête-à-tête developing from her post in the kitchen and come over to investigate. “Phillip is a good person. He made a mistake, and we've forgiven him. I think you could do the same.”

Mr. Hooks raised one hand dismissively in another way I didn't like. “Everybody knows what that boy's like. Forgiveness is for people who are trying to change their sinful ways, not those who are wallowing in their bad habits.”

“Forgiveness is for everyone,” Michelle said, to an “amen” from my mother, passing by and hearing only the last of the conversation.

Again that wave, and I realized suddenly why I disliked the gesture so much: It was Bill Cobb's dismissive wave, to a T.

“I'm sorry you dislike him so much,” I said, straining for civility and to keep my feelings off my face. “He won't be here today.”

The memory of Phillip's presence the last time we'd similarly gathered (and Michael's absence from every gathering in recent months) cast a pall over dinner, and it was a quiet meal despite the excellent stuffing Michelle had fixed and the goose I'd been up basting when Arturo and Candace arrived. It was especially quiet after Mrs. Hooks announced that they had to leave shortly after dinner to drop by Michael and Gloria's. She turned to Mom and Dad. “I hope you'll run by with us and see them. They asked about you specifically.”

“Oh,” Mom said. “Well. Poppa and I have talked about that, and I think we'll just take them out to eat later this week.”

“You're not going to the house?” I asked. I wasn't sure I was understanding them.

“Why not?” Candace asked.

“Well,” Dad said, clearing his throat, “we don't see how we can go visit him and that woman and not look like we condone what he's doing.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, living in sin and all.”

Michelle and I shared a distressed look. “Dad,” I said, “I'd give years of my life for the invitation you're turning down.”

He turned to me. “Son, you know how sorry I am for the way things have been between you. And I know that maybe such things don't matter much to you, but it seems to me that some things are right and some things are wrong, and you can't close your eyes to them.”

“I don't see it that way,” I said.

“They asked for you,” Mrs. Hooks said again. “And it is Christmas.”

“The apostle Paul says that marriage is a sacred part of the Christian life,” my mother said. “If a man and woman are going to love each other and live with each other, it should only be within the bonds of holy matrimony.” The Hooks nodded reluctantly; this was true.

“I don't like Paul,” I said, setting my fork down conspicuously, as though I refused to eat another bite until the Bible was changed to my satisfaction. “I've never liked him.”

My mother furrowed her brow, set down her own fork, and looked across the table at me the way she used to do when I was in high school and we disagreed, which was most of the time. “John, it doesn't matter if you like Paul. It isn't Paul talking. It's God. Those are God's words about how we're supposed to live.”

“Okay,” I said. “Fine.” I was pretty sure it
was
Paul talking, but you couldn't have that argument with my mother. I picked up my fork, put a big bite of juicy goose into my mouth, and resolved not to say another word for the rest of the day, a determination I was able to keep for the most part. After pie we—minus the Hooks, who were going back into Watonga to spend the afternoon with my oldest son—retired to the living room for football and afternoon naps, and I fell asleep on the couch to the sounds of play-by-play and my dad sawing logs across the room in his old recliner.

When I woke up, the afternoon was well advanced, and after clearing the table later that evening of a supper of leftovers and more pie—mincemeat and peach this time instead of pumpkin and pecan, my choices at lunch—we played cards. All eight of us were in the dining room, although only six of us played—Lauren and my mom sat out, Lauren because she said she didn't feel like being chained to the table, and my mom from some vague moral conviction that made her feel uneasy whenever she picked up a deck of cards. Since Arturo had never played Spades, we taught him the basics of the game and then turned him loose. He played with good humor and some intelligence, quickly picking up the strategies. Dad tried to draw him out, to make him talk about himself, either to gather more information or to distract him from his game.

“When are you going to see your family?” he asked.

Arturo laid the five of hearts on Candy's eight of hearts. “They're coming through Albuquerque on their way back from skiing in Colorado. I have to get back to my research, so we'll have to leave here the 27th. Then my folks should visit us on the 29th.”

“Have they met Candace?”

“Yes, sir. They're crazy about her. My momma pulled me aside the first time I brought her home and told me I better grab her up while I could.” He took Candy's free hand in his and squeezed. “And so I did.”

“When do you aim to get married?”

“Well, sir, with your permission,” and here he inclined his head, gave my father a sort of bow, “we've talked about getting married when I graduate in June.”

My mother let out a little sound—half gasp, half coo.

“Not much time,” my dad reflected.

“No, sir. But we're thinking of a small wedding, only family, out in Albuquerque.”

“Catholic wedding?”

Arturo and Candy shared a quick glance. “Yes, sir.”

“We didn't raise Candace that way.” Dad's face was impassive.

“You raised me to listen for God's call,” Candy said. “You did a good job raising me. It doesn't matter where I serve God.”

“I've known some good Catholic Christians,” my mom said. She did not see that description as redundant or offensive; Arturo just smiled at her. Candy had briefed him well.

“Our children will be able to choose when they're older how they wish to worship God,” Arturo said. “But we believe a family should worship God together.”

“Raise up a child in the way he is to go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it,” my mom said, but I don't know whether it was meant as argument or concurrence, and neither, apparently, did anyone else, for it simply hung in the air like Wile E. Coyote off the edge of a cartoon cliff before plummeting out of sight.

After we played cards for a couple of hours and Dad announced he had to go to bed, we broke off in our separate directions. B. W. and Arturo had taken a shine to each other, and Candace rolled her eyes as the two set off—without her—for the living room and still more football. On his way out of the room, Dad stopped by my chair and laid his hand on my shoulder like a hawk's claws. “Any young man who's going back to his work at Christmastime must plan to make his mark on the world.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, nodding. “I think that's a fair reading.”

“Do you like him, Johnny?”

“Yes, sir, I do. Do you?”

He made a sour face that eased into a sour grin when he saw the way Candy was hanging on his answer. “No father likes the man who's replacing him. But I suppose he'll do.”

“She loves him,” I said quietly.

He nodded. “Seems to, all right. Well, good night, Son. Candace. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Dad. Mom. I'll see you in the morning.”

“I'm going fishing in the morning,” he announced.

“You want company?”

He shook his head. “I'd just as soon go by myself.”

“I'll see that B. W. leaves you his truck,” I said.

That left just me and Candy at the table while Dad made his slow way out.

“He looks terrible,” she said after a decent interval had passed. “I'm really worried about him.”

“How's he been feeling?”

“Who can say? He won't tell me. I know he's been to the doctor quite a bit, and I know that the bathroom is piled high with prescription bottles, but I don't know what they're all for.”

“Does it scare you?”

“A little. But I guess what's supposed to happen will happen.”

“Huh,” I said. “That's the second time somebody has said that to me this week.”

“It's just what I believe.” She leaned across the table and whispered, “Do you think he liked Arturo?”

I patted her hand. “I think he likes him as much as he can. Don't worry. Everything's going to be beautiful for you.”

“I like the sound of that,” she said, and smiled big until she got a good look at me. “John,” she said, biting her lip, “is everything going to be beautiful for you?”

She had no right to have eyes so direct, so full of trust. After a deep breath I shook my head. “I don't know, honey. I miss Michael. That whole thing is a bad situation, and I've done everything wrong there.” I took in a deep breath, let it out. “And I'm not sure what the future holds. Not sure at all. I just know that I can't go on the way I have for—well, something has to change. Either me or the circumstances.” I squeezed her hand to reassure her. “Maybe it'll be me.” Then I stood up, walked over to look out at the snow-filled fields. “Things'll happen the way they're supposed to happen, I guess. At least, that's what I hear.”

“That's three,” she said. “You're a good brother, John. And a good father. And a good husband. You deserve the best. You deserve a beautiful life.”

“Oh, sweetie,” I said. “Good brother, maybe. That's about the best I could say for myself. But thank you for always thinking the best of me.”

“What else could I think?” she asked.

There was no answer to that. She was mistaken, of course, wrong as anything, but to dispute with your kid sister about such a thing on such a joyful evening is also wrong as anything, so I decided to make for bed and, maybe, peaceful sleep.

“I love you,” I said, hugging her and filling my nostrils with the wonderful fruit and herb smells of her hair. “Thank you for coming.”

She kissed my cheek and threw an arm around my neck to inhibit my exit. “Thanks for inviting us. And for welcoming Arturo. He's the world to me.”

“And should be,” I said. “See you in the morning. We'll see if Dad remembers he wants to go fishing.”

He did. After breakfast, Dad had me dig up my gear and asked if he could wear my new coveralls down to the pond, after which he proceeded out to the truck and disappeared from our sight.

“What do you have planned for the day?” Michelle asked, coming up behind me at the table, massaging my shoulders with her strong fingers, and making me feel better than I had any right to feel. If her dad had massaged my shoulders this way, I would have felt much better disposed toward him.

“Thought I'd deliver some mail before my practice with the geezers,” I said.

“Mail?” Her fingers paused for a moment in their wonderful work.

“Remember when you suggested I write people I didn't get to see anymore?”

“Ah,” she said. “Special delivery. Well, will you let me know how things turn out?”

“Of course I will,” I said. I ducked my head so I didn't have to look her in the eye.

“I think Candy and Lauren and I are going into Oklahoma City to catch the sales and maybe check on some of the final details for the dance.”

“Ah, yes,” I sighed. “The dance.”

“And tomorrow we're going to finish getting everything decorated. I can't believe we're actually going to pull this thing off.”

“Who's the we doing the decorating?”

She finished up with my shoulders and walked over to the sink with my plate. “Me and a couple of other folks. Oh, I invited Samantha to help. Turns out her folks have gone off on that cruise they've been talking about all these years and left her alone in the house, this of all Christmases. I thought she might like a little distraction since the girls are over at Bill's folks until New Year's.”

I was looking down at the table, at the place my plate used to occupy. It seemed safest. “I'm sure the dance is going to be great.”

“Well,” she said, “we're off. Be careful.”

“Careful?”

“At practice.” She bent over to kiss my brow. “I love you. Be careful.”

“You said that twice,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, “okay,” and she was gone.

I got my things together as soon as they pulled out of sight: my practice stuff, my letters, my jacket. On the drive into town I was listening to the Gospel According to Saint Bruce—Springsteen, that is. Michelle always said that if Bruce couldn't teach you something, you weren't listening, and I was listening, although nothing struck me right away except that
Darkness on the Edge of Town
was a pretty bleak vision of a world where you had to grab for whatever chance at redemption you could find.

Not much help for a man who knows he wants and needs redemption but isn't sure how he'll recognize it if it shows up.

When I arrived at Phillip's, I expected the gate to be locked up tight and was a little surprised that the padlock was gone. I'd figured on slipping my letter into the mailbox in flagrant disregard of that federal law on unauthorized use of mailboxes, but since this gave me the chance to avoid a life on the run, I gratefully drove on down to the house.

The new pile of bottles had grown by leaps and bounds since I'd last been here, and seeing that gave me a kick to the stomach that almost doubled me over. “God help us,” I whispered per usual before cutting the engine and sliding out the door and past the truck Phillip and I had once dreamed of fixing up. The hood was open, and the carburetor and starter lay piled on top of the engine block.