A Christmas Wish Read Free Page B

gave me a querulous look. Wondering, no doubt, why I didn’t want to know.
    We returned at just after two to see the table had been set with my grandmother’s fine china and flatware, crystal water tumblers and wineglasses, too, another Duncan family tradition. As kids, we were warned, “You break it . . . you’ll regret it.” My mother meant it. Even back then she was not known for her warm and fuzzy moments. Also, we realized upon our return that we were not alone, the party of four had now expanded to six. The first guests had arrived, my parents’ best friends and my father’s business partner, Harry Henderson, and his (third) wife, Katrina, both of whom sat in the living room with glasses of wine and nibbling on cheese and crackers, both of them impeccably dressed. Both Janey and I changed into more suitable clothes for my mother’s formal Thanksgiving, returning downstairs for proper introductions. I had met the Hendersons on numerous occasions, so this time it was Janey in the spotlight, and as she politely smiled at them, I wondered how much they’d been briefed on Janey’s situation—and found out sooner than I had wanted.
    â€œWhy, you’re very pretty,” Harry said.
    â€œYes, it’s very nice to meet you, Janey,” Katrina Henderson said. “I bet Brian’s just the best dad. You’re very lucky.”
    A silence descended on the room, the crackling of the fire the only audible sound. My father looked at me with apology in his eyes and my mother put a hand to her mouth, trying in vain to keep the sharp “eek” from coming out. It was Janey, though, who took simple control of the awkward situation when she simply, innocently, and without judgment, said, “Oh, Brian’s not my dad. He’s . . . he’s Brian, and he takes very good care of me.”
    â€œOf course he does, dear,” my mother said, coming up behind Janey, nearly forcing her from the room with the promise of a sweet treat waiting for her in the kitchen. As though such an obvious action could remove the uncomfortable silence that settled over the room. I stared after Janey, wondering if I should go after her. Finally someone found their voice and I remained.
    â€œI’m so sorry, Brian, I didn’t know how to refer to you,” Katrina said, “and, well, you must admit, it’s a disagreeable situation to be placed in.”
    â€œIf you think so, imagine how Janey feels. Excuse me,” I said, glad to escape their company. I went to check on Janey.
    I found her sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of soda while my mother basted the turkey; and here I thought she was comforting Janey. I asked my mother if I could have a moment alone with Janey, and thankfully the ringing of the doorbell saved me from having to ask twice. Guess our other guests had arrived. Gee, I could hardly wait to see who else my mother had lured into her Thanksgiving trap. She tossed down a dish towel and asked that I attend the turkey; “it needs attention.”
    Well, so did Janey. “You okay?” I asked.
    She nodded while taking a prolonged sip from the glass.
    â€œYou say the word, we can go home, probably be home in time to . . .”
    â€œTo sleep,” she said with exasperation. “It’s a long drive, remember?”
    â€œWe’ll leave first thing tomorrow morning, okay?”
    â€œYou promise?”
    â€œCross my heart,” I said, and made the motion to mirror my promise.
    She set the glass down, scrunching her nose at me. “Brian, what’s a tradition?”
    â€œIt’s . . . well, it’s when you do the same thing all the time,” I said, knowing that wasn’t the best definition I could come up with. “Okay, here’s an example. You know how I explained that I have always had Thanksgiving dinner with my parents? That’s a tradition. And at Christmastime, we always decorate the tree