The Book of Joe

into my mashed potatoes. We go through the first bottle of wine in under ten minutes, and Cindy quickly opens a second.
    “So, Joe,” Brad says, “how long do you plan on sticking around?” Cindy perks up with obvious interest in my answer.
    “I’m not sure,” I say. “My plans are somewhat open-ended.”
    “I don’t know why anyone would stick around this shit-hole a day longer than they had to,” Jared says.
    “Jared!” Cindy snaps at him as the twins gasp in delighted horror at his language.
    “Watch your mouth, Jared,” Brad says wearily.
    “Sorry. This craphole.”
    The twins are like a sitcom laugh track.
    “I used to feel like you, Jared. But you wouldn’t believe how much you can miss a place you think you hate.” That’s me, affecting a guileless tone of open conciliation in a futile attempt to ease the tension at the table and perhaps begin smoothing things over between my only living relatives and me.
    “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” Jared says. “I, on the other hand, have not yet written my revenge.”
    “My book wasn’t for revenge.”
    “What, then?”
    “It’s complicated.”
    “You always say that. It’s not so simple. It’s complicated.
    Bullshit. You got back at all the people you were pissed at.
    There’s nothing wrong with it, but let’s call it what it is. Revenge.”
    “That’s enough, Jared,” Brad says, although not with much conviction.
    “Oh, come on, Dad,” Jared says, his face turning red. “You went apeshit when that book came out. You and Mom couldn’t shut up about it.”
    “Now we’re getting somewhere,” I say, turning to Brad as if I meant for the conversation to take this turn. “I’m sure you were pissed when the book came out. So why didn’t you say anything to me?”
    Brad slowly puts down his fork and finishes the chicken in his mouth with slow, deliberate chews, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his napkin to indicate that he will not be rushed. “Why didn’t I say anything,” he says, nodding resignedly, as if he would like to have avoided this discussion altogether but has been coerced into it. “One: because you and I rarely speak to each other. Two: because I probably didn’t want to give you the satisfaction. But mostly - and I know you might find this hard to understand - because I’m an adult, Joe, and I have got much bigger problems to deal with than some stupid, mean-spirited book.”
    “That you do,” says Cindy with a nasty grin before chugging down what I estimate to be her fourth glass of wine.
    Brad turns to his wife, his expression a tired mixture of pity and disgust. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
    “Not even close.”
    “Why are you mad at me?” I ask Jared in a whisper as Brad and Cindy gnaw at each other like two angry animals.
    “I’m not mad.”
    “You could have fooled me.”
    “I’m just trying to draw their fire.”
    “From what?”
    Jared sighs and looks at me. “From you.”
    Before I can ask him what he means, Shnookums comes flying into the dining room and performs a reckless dive into the chicken marinara, splattering the red sauce across the tablecloth as she flaps her wings in a frantic effort to correct her flight path.
    “Brad!” Cindy yells as we all jump to our feet in surprise.
    “Fuck!” Brad exclaims.
    The bird spins around on the serving platter as if it’s standing on a lazy Suzan, unable to take to the air again because of the saturation of sauce in its feathers. Cindy swats at the bird, missing completely but knocking over her wineglass, which spills onto the table, and the wine bottle, which hits the wood floor with a resounding thud. “Goddammit!”
    Cindy shrieks.
    We all watch, mesmerized, as Shnookums finally extracts herself from the chicken dish and takes a few jerky steps across the table, leaving perfect red footprints on the tablecloth in her wake before coming to a stop directly in front of me. “Hey, dickhead,” she says, and that pretty much wraps up dinner with the family.
    After helping Brad and Cindy clean up the mess in their dining room, I am making my good-byes when I catch Cindy flashing Brad a meaningful look. “I’ll walk you out,” Brad says to me. I remember Jared’s comment about drawing his parents’ fire and wonder what’s coming. We sit down on the front steps, and Brad gets right to it. “I need to talk to you about Jared.”
    “Okay,” I say. “You know, I have to tell you, I really like him.