A Song for Julia

want to talk about it,” he said, his eyes sliding off to the side.
    “It’s okay.”
    I can’t even begin to describe the contrasts and differences between spending Thanksgiving with my own family and with Crank’s. Most years, in my family, Thanksgiving consisted of official functions in embassies and consulates around the world. Less formal when I was very young, but by the time I was in middle school, my father’s responsibilities meant we often had to host large, official dinners for embassy staff, important expats in whatever country we were in, as well as the occasional important visiting dignitary from Main State.
    In other words, when I think of Thanksgiving, I think formal dinners, formal dress, stiff backed chairs and enforced, absolute silence for everyone under thirty. I also often think of Corporal Lewis. Three years running, in Belgium, Carrie and I sat with him at a table a fair distance from my parents. He snuck us candy and sweets, told silly jokes, and generally kept us entertained. I can’t imagine what he thought of it all. In what world would a United States Marine essentially end up as a babysitter for a preteen girl and often her little sisters? But whatever he thought, he never said anything, simply keeping up a constant banter about cars, girls, growing up in Texas, his fascination with professional wrestling and the vagaries of service in the Corps.
    I was too sick to go to any Thanksgiving functions my freshman year in high school. I didn’t realize at the time I was already pregnant, I just knew I woke up that morning and immediately had to puke my guts out. Odd, now that I think about it, that my mother didn’t think to call a doctor. I spent that Thanksgiving in bed in our apartment in the diplomatic compound. Alexandra was too young to attend the dinner, so the two of us sat up most of the evening, playing go-fish and later watching a movie together, curled up in bed.
    Thanksgiving at Jack’s house? Totally different.
    For one thing, no one dressed up. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my formal dress, but everyone was very nice about it.
    Second, everyone brought a dish. I was so glad I thought to bring something … it didn’t occur to Crank to warn me, of course. Mrs. Doyle actually pushed a small cart down the street, with covered dishes precariously teetering on top. Margot brought pumpkin pie, and Tony brought wine. Italian wine, which made me chuckle and made Jack burst into a string of colorful curses. The table was a scattered mix: a plump turkey Jack had been up half the night cooking, steaming buttery mashed potatoes, half a dozen vegetables brought over on Mrs. Doyle’s cart, fresh lobster, which caught my attention instantly, and homemade pies. Homemade.
    I’d never eaten a homemade pie in my life. I think I shocked Mrs. Doyle when I hugged her and told her it was the best pie I’d ever eaten.
    Jack’s parents showed up too. Imagine Crank’s charm and Jack’s humor and affability on a seventy-five-year-old man. Ryan Wilson was a retired Boston cop who arrived in the United States with his parents at four years old, just a few months before the 1929 Stock Market Crash. He grew up during the Depression and ran away to enlist in the Army at 16 years old. The Army sent him to Europe, where he ended up as part of the invasion force that landed on Omaha Beach.
    After the dinner, where I unashamedly stuffed myself to the gills, I ended up sitting next to Margot on the couch, while Jack’s father told stories of what he called Old Southie, when rival gangs dominated the whole neighborhood. Tony sat down on the floor next to Sean, controllers in hand, while they played one of the video games Crank gave Sean for his birthday. At one point, I jumped when Tony let out a loud shout. He’d died, body parts flying everywhere. It was gruesome. Sean started to talk, fast and excited.
    Margot leaned close to me and said, in a soft voice, “I’m so glad you could come.”
    I gave her a shy smile. “Thank you. I’ve really had a wonderful time. I never imagined a Thanksgiving like this.”
    She gave me an odd, curious look. “Like what?”
    I looked around the room. Then I sighed. “You’ve got a wonderful family here. It’s so—warm.”
    She looked down. “I think I know what you mean. You know Mrs. Doyle … she’s a widow. Mr. Doyle was on the force, he was shot during a liquor store robbery in … oh, I guess it was around ’85. Jack just … adopted her