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She was about to head off to college in the fall. Long dark hair, deep brown eyes, and a body that wouldn’t quit.
    â€œAnyway, as you know, when one of the millet packets breaks open, we hold the stuff aside for the parakeets we sell. But Martha must have given Einstein some. So Einstein is back, bringing that lady with him.” Dad chuckled at his own joke. “She marched right over to the books, looked through them for a minute, and then picked one up and opened it. She held it up to the bird. ‘What do you think, Einstein? Is this the one you wanted?’ He steps back and forth on her shoulder a few times, side to side, you know? Which she took for no!” He laughed and looked at Chris.
    I looked at Chris, too. He seemed for all the world to be paying attention to Dad. Any casual observer would have been fooled. And I think Dad was fooled. But I wasn’t. Dad went on.
    â€œSo she says, ‘Okay, then, is this it?’ And she picks another one up, and his head bobs up and down. And she says, ‘Oh, good! We’ve found it.’ And she marches right up to the checkout counter with it!” He was laughing too hard to take a swallow from the bottle he’d raised toward his face, and he slapped his thigh. I was still watching Chris, who was doing his best to smile. Dad took a swig at last and then said, “And do you know, that book wasn’t about birds at all? It was about spiders!”
    Now, personally, I thought this was the funniest part of the whole story, but Dad sank back into his recliner, satisfied. He sighed, shook his head, and drank some more beer.
    After a bit Chris asked for another story, and Dad rambled on about a few things. I could tell he really wanted to hear more war stories, and I could also tell Chris was struggling with something. Maybe trying not to think about the war, like he’d said. It was a relief when Mom finally announced the turkey was ready to be carved, and Dad heaved himself up and went in to do his husbandly duty. I watched Chris until he realized I was looking at him.
    â€œYou okay, kid?” he asked.
    â€œI was gonna ask you that.”
    He looked away, lifted his bottle and drank, and he didn’t say anything else until we were called to the table.
    Dinner was weird. That’s the best word for it. Right from the start, when Mom made us all say grace. We hadn’t done that since I was twelve, maybe? I was all ready to dig in, fork stabbed into a thick slice of white meat.
    Her voice sounded almost eerie. “Let us bow our heads in a prayer of Thanksgiving.”
    From the blank look on everyone else’s face, I was guessing she took all of us by surprise. But we bowed our heads, and she went on.
    â€œMerciful Lord, thank you so much for allowing Chris to be home with us, even for a few days. Please watch over him and protect him as he leaves us again, even as he fights to protect the freedom we all enjoy. Thank you for this family and all the comforts you have given us. Thank you for the bounty of this meal and for your love. Amen.”
    We all mumbled something that sounded enough like “amen” to satisfy Mom, I guess, ’cause she was beaming this smile all around the table when I looked up. I’m sure her intentions were great, but I couldn’t help feeling a little spooked. It didn’t stop me from eating, but I think we all felt—I dunno, maybe constrained after that little display of religious fervor. I could tell Dad was holding himself back from what he wanted, which was to talk about the war. Chris, of course, had come to the table already in a weird mood, and maybe I had too, because of him. Mom obviously could tell something was wrong with Chris, but she didn’t know what—or what to do about it. I was just trying to keep my head down. It felt like shooting of some kind was gonna happen sooner or later, at some point and for some reason I couldn’t predict because I