Of the six of us, my brother Johnny was the only one we didn’t see on a regular basis. He lived just two towns away, but he had a corporate job that required lots of traveling, which was either true or just an excuse not to see us on a regular basis. His wife Kim had some kind of corporate job, too, and they spent more than their share of holidays with her family in Pennsylvania. When they did grace us with their presence, they were always sneaking off to check emails and texts on their phones. Johnny had been the first of the bunch to get married. He and Kim had kids right away, and their youngest had just gone off to college.

“Maybe he got a better offer?” Christine said.

“Five will get you ten,” Billy Jr. said.

“Bite your tongue,” my father said. “Thanksgiving is a blessed day in this family’s life. Our Johnny boy will be here, you mark my word.” He waited the perfect beat, then waggled his shaggy white eyebrows. “And with any luck at all we’ll have finished his share by then!”

“That’ll teach him!” my five-year-old nephew Sean yelled from the kiddie section. He’d been working with a speech therapist I’d helped Christine find. I took a moment to appreciate how much better his enunciation was getting and to send a thumbs-up in Christine’s direction.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” my sister Carol said. “I’ve been starving myself all week for a slice of apple pie slathered in ice cream.”

“The apple pie is totally from scratch,” I lied, “even the crust. I worked hard on that pie.”

“You made the apple pie?” Carol said. “I’m so not wasting my carbs then.”

My father pushed back his chair and stood at the head of the table. He cleared his throat dramatically. “If you wish to make an apple pie truly from scratch, you must first invent the universe.”

“Carl Sagan,” John said.

“Are you sure?” Christine said. “Carl Sagan’s not Irish, Dad.”

“You have no proof of that,” my father said.

“Was that grace?” my niece Siobhan said. “Some of us would like to take out our phones again in this lifetime.”

“Hold your horses,” my father said. He raised his glass. “‘Here’s to alcohol, the rose-colored glasses of life.’”

Carol blew out a blast of air. “Jesus, Dad. Come on, it’s freakin’ Thanksgiving.”

“I’ll have you know that’s F. Scott Fitzgerald,” our father said. “He’s no slouch, our Francis. And as Irish as the day is long.”

Our dad peered out from under his eyebrows at his grandchildren. “Do any of you young whippersnappers want to make a confabulation in the grace department?”

“My tummy’s a rumblin’,” my nephew Ian said. “So let’s stop this mumblin’.”

“Amen,” the kiddie table yelled.