Walt looked offended. “That thing has occupied valuable real estate for a year.”
His cousin laughed and handed one side to Jonah.
They stood near the sink while everyone else argued about whether the turkey was dry.
“Ready?” his cousin asked.
Jonah nodded.
They pulled.
The bone snapped.
The larger piece stayed in Jonah’s hand.
His cousin groaned dramatically.
“What’d you wish for?”
Jonah looked at the table.
There were too many chairs squeezed around it. His mother was laughing with Walt. Diane was listening while her younger son told a story. Nobody had put a separate plate by the door. Nobody had assigned Jonah a job that belonged to his place in the family.
“I’m not telling.”
After dinner, Jonah stood and reached for the serving spoon to carry the last sweet potatoes to the kitchen.
His mother glanced at him.
“You sure?”
“I’ve got it.”
Halfway across the room, the spoon slid from his hand.
It hit the floor with a bright metal clatter.
For one second, Jonah froze.
The old dining room returned in his body before his mind could stop it: gravy on white cloth, Diane’s hand around his wrist, the sentence about being useful.
Then his cousin bent to pick up the spoon.
Walt said, “We own more spoons.”
His mother laughed.
Diane stayed seated.
She did not correct him, explain him, or turn the accident into a lesson.
Jonah looked at the spoon in his cousin’s hand.
Then he started laughing too.
The sound came slowly at first, then all at once.
His cousin handed him a clean spoon from the drawer.
