The Mephisto Club

reached for a chef’s knife and attacked a bunch of parsley, mincing it with machine-gun raps. “I blame myself. Should have taught him better. But really, it’s your father’s fault. He sets the example. No appreciation for me whatsoever.”
    Jane glanced at Gabriel, who chose just that moment to conveniently escape the room. “Uh…Mom? Did Dad do something to tick you off?”
    Angela looked over her shoulder at Jane, her knife blade poised over the mangled parsley. “You don’t want to know.”
    “Yes I do.”
    “I’m not going to go there, Janie. Oh, no. I believe every father deserves his child’s respect, no matter
what
he does.”
    “So he did do something.”
    “I told you, I’m not going to go there.” Angela scooped up the minced parsley and flung it onto the bowl of gnocchi. Then she stomped to the doorway and yelled, over the sound of the TV: “Dinner!
Sit.
”
    Despite Angela’s command, it was a few minutes before Frank Rizzoli and his two sons could tear themselves away from the TV. The halftime show had begun, and leggy girls in sequins strutted across the stage. The three Rizzoli men sat with eyes transfixed on the screen. Only Gabriel rose to help Jane and Angela shuttle platters of food into the dining room. Though he didn’t say a word, Jane could read the look he gave her.
    Since when did Christmas dinner turn into a war zone?
    Angela slammed the bowl of roast potatoes on the table, walked into the living room, and snatched up the remote. With one click, she shut off the TV.
    Frankie groaned. “Aw, Mom. They got Jessica Simpson coming on in ten…” He saw Angela’s face and instantly shut up.
    Mike was the first to jump up from the couch. Without a word, he scooted obediently into the dining room, followed at a more sullen pace by his brother Frankie and Frank senior.
    The table was magnificently set. Candles flickered in crystal holders. Angela had laid out her blue and gold china and linen napkins and the new wineglasses she’d just bought over at the Dansk outlet. When Angela sat down and surveyed the feast, it was not with pride but with a look of sour dissatisfaction.
    “This looks wonderful, Mrs. Rizzoli,” said Gabriel.
    “Why,
thank
you. I know
you
appreciate how much work goes into a meal like this. Since
you
know how to cook.”
    “Well, I didn’t really have a choice, living on my own for so many years.” He reached under the table and squeezed Jane’s hand. “I’m lucky I found a girl who can cook.”
When she gets around to it
was what he should have added.
    “I taught Janie everything I know.”
    “Ma, can you pass the lamb?” called Frankie.
    “
Excuse
me?”
    “The lamb.”
    “What happened to
please
? I’m not passing it until you say the word.”
    Jane’s father sighed. “Geez Louise, Angie. It’s Christmas. Can we just feed the boy?”
    “I’ve been feeding this boy for thirty-six years. He’s not going to starve just because I ask for a little courtesy.”
    “Um…Mom?” ventured Mike. “Could you, uh, please pass the potatoes?” Meekly, he added again, “Please?”
    “Yes, Mikey.” Angela handed him the bowl.
    For a moment no one spoke. The only sounds were jaws chewing and silverware sawing against china. Jane glanced at her father, seated at one end of the table, and then at her mother, seated at the other end. There was no eye contact between them. They might have been dining in different rooms, so distant were they from each other. Jane did not often take the time to study her parents, but tonight she felt compelled to, and what she saw depressed her. When did they get so old? When did Mom’s eyes start to droop, and Dad’s hair recede to such thin wisps?
    When did they start hating each other?
    “So Janie, tell us what kept you so busy last night,” said her dad, his gaze on his daughter, studiously avoiding even a glance at Angela.
    “Um, no one really wants to hear about it, Dad.”
    “I do,” said Frankie.
    “It’s Christmas. I think maybe—”
    “Who got whacked?”
    She glanced across the table at her older brother. “A young woman. It wasn’t pretty.”
    “Doesn’t bother me any to talk about it,” Frankie said, shoving a chunk of pink lamb into his mouth. Frankie the Master Sergeant, challenging her to gross him out.
    “This one
would
bother you. It sure as hell bothers me.”
    “Was she good-looking?”
    “What’s that got to do with it?”
    “Just wondering.”
    “It’s an idiotic