Leonora Rabkin fretted most of early December away, and got on her husband’s nerve too much; he couldn’t soothe the aching feeling of injustice she always picked at; she loathed playing second-fiddle to others and became a martyr in more melodramatic moments. Jim Rabkin could only listen, sympathize when his wife’s overabundant psychological need to point out unfairness reached a boiling point. He blamed this new play, the one she wouldn’t shut up about. She even wanted him to read it. He refused, time and again, acting was her thing, and even this made Leonora even harder to handle. He spent more time in the garage with his car. They loved each other unconditionally, made a good team, but defined the phrase opposites attract. While Leonora still thrived, working and building up her own realty office, the thrill of the sale, her husband enjoyed early retirement from a technical manufacturing business (Leonora told people her husband loved gadgets). He now drank scotch while watching Cosmos and MSNBC, shows about building treehouses; those that revealed a discovered secret from history (the Industrial Age especially caught his enthusiasm) were his favorites, and he’d share his observations with Leonora over dinner. Lately, even this had become a chore.

            “I wouldn’t worry yourself so much. You’ll get the part, or some part, honey. You’re so good.”

            “I only want the lead in this play, and I won’t underestimate that conniving Kate Denisov again.”

            “I find her a bit icy.” He was saying what he knew his wife wanted to hear most evenings. She’d go read the play again, practice her lines, while Jim watched a few hours of television before shutting the house down for the evening. He’d run a bath for Leonora, try to soothe her nerves, and she was getting on his nerves more and more as Christmas day loomed close enough to touch. He was at a loss this year on what to get his wife, and even thought of a retreat, something that involved counseling, not psychiatry, but a group where she could talk to someone, maybe get help with her manic thoughts. He googled retreats and couldn’t find one that sounded fun. He’d have to go too, and if there wasn’t a nearby golf course available for his own needs, he continued looking. A silent retreat popped up in his search online one early December day and he read about those who attended and how they were comforted, group yoga, hikes, meditation, energy building, aura study, all in complete silence. No word could be spoken from the moment of arrival to the departing wave. He’d like to send Leonara there, box her up and ship her toot sweet.

            The turkey’s wishbone was larger than Morton could remember ever seeing before, and he marveled at it, showed it off to the kids, preserved it after carving into the large bird to pry it out gently. The wishbone dried on the windowsill above the kitchen sink, awaiting Miles and Carter’s tug-of-war jousting later in the evening. The two boys nudged each other, pestered and gave each other grief, boasted about being the luckiest. Roger glanced at the wishbone from time to time as he washed pots, the gravy boat, china, glasses, the stuff the dishwasher couldn’t take after a full load. Too long ago now, everything with a bit of haziness clouding each memory, he thought of his own childhood past, when his parents and his younger sister were forced into the same room in the house, celebrating any birthday or holiday together (without his mom or dad drinking too much booze before, during, or after the feast), and to care as much as he did.

            Now, he hadn’t seen his father in over two decades, after pops simply walked out on his family. His mother became more of a harpy, wine-fueled rages of despair, and rot, ruin, and Roger graduated high school and had to do hard time, entering Washington State University in Pullman, where his mother worked as an assistant to one of the bureaucratic bigwigs—she received a marked discount from the university, her children who enrolled there did too with tuition discounts, and their mother never let them forget it. Her sharp mind fastened chains to both her children’s futures. She wanted to keep them close, and this only made them frustrated, hateful even, at times.

            After he graduated with an English degree (Roger wanted to teach—escape) he sought work in Anacortes, far from his Pullman, Washington homestead—married and divorced young after failing at acquiring a job in the local school system. His sister, Judy, never forgave him for leaving, her bitterness mirroring his mother’s monstrous cracked heart. Judy couldn’t escape until years later. It was a college town, and she scraped by, decided to live at home, take care of (enable) her decaying mom, day-drinker extraordinaire, save up funds, be a waitress at a breakfast lunch diner, study economics. She had a mind for it, the smartest of the bunch. Their mother died of liver complications in her fifties, and Judy called, sent Roger half the proceeds from the sale of the 1,500 square foot, three-bedroom family home. Roger had fled west, reached Anacortes and seldom glanced backwards into his history. Judy married an accountant and lived in Spokane. She had three kids, all approaching their teenage years, converted to the Mormon faith—which suited her hatred of alcohol, and enhanced her enjoyment of sweets. Roger and Judy communicated but once a year, and Roger didn’t let this distancing bother him. He sent his two nephews and one niece gift cards for Christmas, not knowing them well enough to pick out anything personal. Stayed in touch just enough to keep them at a distance. It hurt Roger to see Judy. Simple as that. Can’t choose your family. Bullshit. And then his next thought wondering if he should send Judy an invitation to the opening of The Queen’s Idle Fancy in May, months away. She’d have time to coordinate her schedule at work, and the kids would love the action scenes, the fighting with swords, the execution scenes. All children loved grisly tales.