But there’s more that Peggy doesn’t say. History. Dar MacIsaac used to be Peggy’s best friend because Peggy’s ex-husband Skroink was best friends with Freddy MacIsaac growing up. And because they were both nosy big-mouthed bingo bags who grew up in The Mines, Peggy and Dar got along like two old birds. But then Peggy and Skroink split up and Dar told everyone that it was because Peggy was fooling around with Skroink’s cousin Bonk. So it stands to reason that Peggy has been hankering to get a good solid dig in at Dar ever since. Char showing up with a baby and a ready-made sob story about how her racist parents put her out on the street? Peggy Fortune to the rescue. Now she doesn’t actually have to deal with Char and still gets to parade around with the grandbaby that Dar and Freddy are too small-minded and petty to accept.

Mama puts a plate of turkey and a bowl of potatoes on the table.

“Jesus, Mossy. Don’t sit there waitin’ for me to wait on ya. Get yourself a plate,” Mama says at about five times her normal volume and a third of her regular speed. Uncle Mossy smiles like the intellectual invalid he’s always been assumed to be, and nods without making eye contact.

“Don’t tell me he’s deaf,” Mama says, grinning sideways. “Selective hearing, that one.”

Uncle Mossy shovels some meat and potatoes onto the good Blue Willow china plate, and smiles like the clever little Jeezer Mama always insisted he was.

Mama sits down, and in between bites comes the kind of familiarly awkward and awkwardly familiar conversation that makes me want to jump out of my skin and run screaming into the night. Or get good and goddamn drunk, at least.

“Willy Gimp’s not around much lately. Were you two going steady or wha?” Mama says.

“Effie, nobody goes steady anymore.” Peggy flutters her fat eyelids like she knows what she’s talking about.

“Or going together or dating or whatever. You know what I mean,” Mama says, waving the gravy boat around recklessly.

“They don’t even do that these days. It’s all with the hookin’ up now. Right, Crow?”

I take a long, slow, convenient sip of wine.

“Hooking up? Like what hookers do?” Mama says.

“Oh, nobody gets any money for it,” Peggy says with know-it-all bluster. “They give it away free. Girls these days. Casting pearls before swine.”

“Well I hope they’re using French safes,” Mama whispers the last two words.

“Have to staple them to them girls’ panties nowadays. If they even wear panties anymore,” Peggy says. “Oh, Effie, is this turkey ever moist!”

If Uncle Mossy isn’t really deaf, I bet he wishes to hell he was now. Maybe Uncle Ernie had it right back at Christmas Eve dinner, circa 1991. Maybe a fork in the eye is an absolutely legitimate response to our family dinners. But I stick with just getting wasted. Another filled glass.

“You’d eat shit on a shingle so long as it’s salty,” Mama’s voice rises. “Peggy never met a meal she didn’t like, eh, Mossy?”