Later, Dad served lunch, fussing and flitting about, asking everyone three times if they would like more of this or that, if they were sure they didn’t, trying to jolly everyone along, the way he’d done for years. Ruby had joined them but declined to pull crackers. She’d barely spoken a word, in fact, until she suddenly interrupted Dad’s flow as he tried to push more sprouts on to her plate. Glaring at Marianne, she said, “You need help.”

Marianne was pouring red wine into her glass, a third refill that saw the bottle emptied. “What have I done?”

“Ruby,” said Jo, “It’s not the best time—”

“Why, because it’s Christmas?

“No, because … well, we’ve all had a drink, haven’t we?”

“You haven’t. I haven’t.” She pointed to their drinks. The wine in their glasses had barely been touched. “It’s never a good time, is it?” She jabbed a finger at Marianne. “She’s drunk all the time. Why does no one ever talk about it?”

In the silence, the question presented a natural response. A trap to fall into.

Dad was the one caught by it. “Talk about what?” He froze, half standing, with oven mitts raised. He glanced from Marianne to Joanna, to Ruby. In that moment, they were all thinking the same thing. Not the alcoholism, which they also never talked about. The other thing.

“Your father was a mouthy little shit too,” said Marianne to Ruby, and Jo stood up, as if to get between them. She wanted to slap a hand over her mother’s mouth.

“Ru—”

Dad said, “What? I was a what?”

“Not you,” said Marianne, reaching for the corkscrew. “That boy. The one that got Joanna pregnant. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” She popped the cork on a new bottle of red and filled her glass to the brim. “I think he’s in prison now, right, Joanna?”

“Mother, stop.” Jo took a step toward Ruby, but she flew out of her chair and over to the doorway, where she hesitated, staring at Joanna. “Do something,” she seemed to say. In a rage, Jo snatched her mother’s wineglass as she tried to take a swig, and the deep red liquid splashed across the table, the carpet, the walls. Marianne cried out, as if in pain. Then she placed her palms on the table, head down like a hyena about to strike.

“You’re so ungrateful. Both of you. I don’t know why we did what we did, Phillip. It wasn’t worth it.”

“Marianne, what are you saying?” said Dad. “Don’t listen, girls—she’s not herself. We love you, both of you. Why don’t you go and have a lie-down, darling?” The oven mitts fell to the floor as he tried to wrestle his wife to a standing position.

“Get off me,” shouted Marianne, falling back into her chair.