Afterward, the optician, Palm, and Elsbeth came over to Selma’s. My mother had decorated the entire apartment with wreaths and branches. It smelled like the forest. We’d tried everything, but the Christmas tree would not stand straight. So the optician put on gardening gloves and held it tight. As long as we sang, he gripped the tree just beneath its peak with his arm outstretched, as if he were holding a newly apprehended criminal who was a flight risk.

We sang “Oh How Joyfully.” Palm had requested it and sang, his voice loud and deep, of a world that was lost. My father was on the phone from Bangladesh. The receiver lay next to us on the coffee table and he sang along.

When we had finished singing, blown out the candles, and propped the Christmas tree against the wall, the optician suddenly announced, “I have something to tell you. I can’t keep it to myself any longer.”

Selma had just pulled the roast out of the oven, Elsbeth was carrying six plates to the table, my mother and I, on the couch with Palm, were about to toast each other with Selma’s eggnog. We all froze as if a spell had been cast on us. Now, we thought, he’s finally going to reveal what we’ve always known.

Selma stood rooted to the spot, holding the roast, and looked as if she regretted having stepped clean over the area outlined in red instead of stepping right in the middle of it and sinking through the floor.

The optician went up to Palm, who stared at him, eyes wide.

“Me?” he asked.

“Yes, you.”

Palm stood up. Apparently we could move again.

“Werner Palm,” the optician said, his hands trembling, “I sawed the posts of your hunting blind. I wanted to kill you. I’m terribly sorry.”

Selma exhaled; the whole of her thin body was one exhalation.

“But nothing happened,” Elsbeth quickly interjected. She still had all the plates in her hands. “And that was twelve years ago.”

“Still.” The optician looked at Palm. “I ask for your forgiveness.”

The optician was shaking. We hadn’t known what a heavy burden he had been carrying.

Palm looked up at the optician. He squinted as if trying to decipher him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Palm said. “I even understand.”

Now the optician exhaled. Now the whole of his tall, thin body was one exhalation. Even though it wasn’t allowed, he was about to hug Palm, but Palm raised his hands and said, “I have something to tell you all, too.”

Selma set the Christmas roast on the windowsill.

“That is, I have something to tell you, Selma.”