Page 21 of Roadrunner

“Ate a little at a buddy’s place already.” He eyed the pies on the sideboard. “I’ll take a slice of that pecan, though.”

“Not till everyone’s finished eating.” Riley tore a dinner roll in half and put most of it in his mouth. “Probably another hour, at least.”

Pete checked his watch. “Not waiting that long.”

“There’s a 7-Eleven,” Riley said, flat. “Klondike bars, Sour Patch Kids. Get something sweet on your way out of town.”

Pete ignored him and looked at Antonio instead. “We’re doing rules now because there’s company? No pie till everyone’s plate is clean?” He glanced at the sideboard again. “All I want’s a slice.”

“Della’s house, Della’s rules.”

“I remember when men ran their own households,” Pete muttered, dropping into the chair across from us, next to Addy. He ran a hand through his hair and eyed the food. “Things have changed.”

“It’s the twenty-first century,” Riley said. “Catch up.”

“Just saying a man ought to be able to have a slice of—”

“Probably why your wife left you,” Riley said.

“She didn’t leave. I divorced that bitch. I left her.”

Della’s eyes cut to Antonio like a blade.

“Language,” Antonio said. “It’s Thanksgiving, brother.”

Pete looked at him, a beat behind, genuinely confused. “What’d I say?”

“You’re being disrespectful,” Riley said.

“To who? Her?” Pete tipped his head at me. “She won’t be around in a week. Who cares?”

Riley came across the table before I understood he’d moved. His fist caught Pete square in the face—I heard it, the wet crack of cartilage giving—and the table went with them, dishes and wine and half the side dishes hitting the floor in one long crash. He hit him twice more before Antonio got an arm around his chest and hauled him back.

Pete wiped his face with the back of his hand, blood already running from his nose. “You little prick.”

“Antonio,” Della said. “He needs to leave.”

Antonio walked Pete out through the hallway. Della stood and started righting what was left on the table without a word, and Addy and I joined her. Riley disappeared toward the bathroom, still muttering.

We ended up carrying the tablecloth into the kitchen whole, using it to catch what had spilled off the platters.

“We gave our kids as much freedom as we could,” Della said, dropping a handful of silverware into the sink. “We wanted them to know we trusted them. Only had three rules in this house.”

“Don’t lie. Apologize when you’re wrong. Everyone on this earth is equal unless they give you a reason to think otherwise.” Addy recited it like a prayer. “Male, female, brown, white. Nobody’s better or worse.”

Della picked the carcass up off the ruined turkey platter, looked at what was left of it, and shook her head. “It’s impossible for Riley to sit there and listen to Pete talk about women like that.”

“He was being pretty rude,” I said.

“He’s despicable when he drinks, and he’s always drinking.” She dropped the carcass in the trash. “I suppose every family has an Uncle Pete.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” I said, though I didn’t have one to compare him to.

We put what was salvageable in containers and did the dishes together. Della washed, Addy rinsed. I dried. Somewhere in there the conversation drifted from stains and recipes to what we actually wore day to day. Della’s answer was a dress.

“I could probably count on one hand how many times I’ve worn one,” I admitted.

“I could count on one hand how many times I’ve worn jeans,” Della said.