“Don’t be ridiculous,” Carol said. “I was holding the turkey, and after a while my thighs started burning like I had a tower of pizza boxes on my lap. Johnny said he’d hold it, but he and Billy Jr. were in the way back. So I turned to hand the turkey to Michael, just for a minute while I got on my knees so I could pass it back—”

Christine jumped in fast. “And somehow the car door opened, and the turkey flew out!”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Michael said. “Somebody’s bony knees were digging into my thigh, and then suddenly I had a lap full of stuffing.”

“Never, ever,” I said in my best Carol imitation, “cook the stuffing in the turkey. It’s an invitation to salmonella and back-seat ejection.”

Carol gave me a dirty look, but everybody else cracked up.

“So, what happened?” John asked. I couldn’t detect any judgment in his voice, but I could still tell he was waiting to find out exactly what level of barbarian we were.

“We pulled over to the side of the road—” Billy Jr. said.

“And Dad handed the beer between his knees to Mom,” Carol said. She gave her seventeen-year-old daughter Siobhan a quick glance. “It was a different time back then.”

Siobhan rolled her eyes.

“Then Dad jumped out of the car,” Christine said. “He grabbed the turkey, danced it around in a circle, put it back in the roasting pan—”

Our father slapped his thigh. “And then I hightailed it back to the car, lickety split, as the crowds cheered.”

“I think I remember crowds cheering,” Michael said. “Or maybe it was horns honking.”

“Did you actually eat the turkey?” Polly asked.

“Of course, we did, darlin’,” our dad said. “I’m no psychometrist, but in my opinion the five-second rule was in full play.”

There were so many of us that it was impossible to really tell who was there and who wasn’t until we were all seated. The adults squished in elbow to elbow around the long dining room table, made longer by yanking both sides in opposite directions and pulling up two leaves hidden underneath. A sofa and a wing chair squeezed in with the dining room chairs, since we’d relocated them from the front parlor to make room for John’s two vintage pinball machines.

The kids were arranged around an assortment of card tables that abutted one end of the dining room table to form a T. Dining room chairs mingled randomly with kitchen chairs, folding chairs, two old wooden highchairs with the trays removed, and a couple of backless wooden stools.

“Hey,” Michael said. “Where’s Johnny?”