Page 138 of Again, In Autumn

I flash my eyes at him, knowing what he’s insinuating and begging him to stop.

Francesca leans back and says, “Wait, Daddy, how did you know that we’d met Adam before?”

He takes a bite of Diego’s stuffing. “Heddy filled me in in the car.”

Heddy smiles wide with raspberry lipstick and munches on her food.

Then, it’s quiet.

I wish someone had put music on or left a Christmas movie on the TV. The only sounds we hear are scraping metal and poured wine, chewing and drinking, Alice humming to herself.

Francesca instructs, “Alice, don’t just eat bread. Try some of these green beans. They’re really yummy.”

“Everything’s delicious,” Maggie offers.

“Fran prepared the turkey,” David says.

“What’s for dessert?” Caroline asks.

I swirl my fork in cranberry sauce. “Pie.”

“Pecan?” Kate begs.

I nod. She cheers.

It’s quiet, again.

Grayson blurts out, “Adam loves Auntie Vee.”

Silence.

I freeze, my forkful of sweet potato casserole hanging in the air.

That must have been some kind of conversation he and Adam had.

While everyone else remains silent, Francesca immediately laughs and says, “Grayson, what?”

“He does nice things for her.” Grayson repeats, “He loves her.”

“What are you talking about?”

She’s the only one who makes a sound and it’s loud – her hand covers a snort. I can’t tell if she’s uncomfortable or being mean, acting as if the whole idea is ludicrous. She finally shakes her head at the rest of us, like what a crazy kid.

“He wrote songs about her,” Grayson says. “Like when you make up songs about us at bedtime. He was singing words about Auntie Vee.”

She sighs and looks at Adam apologetically, “Grayson –”

Grayson insists, “He did. Those songs were about her.” He looks at Adam for confirmation but doesn’t get anything beyond pursed lips and a steady gaze.

I haven’t moved. I’m waiting to see how far this will actually go.

Francesca chuckles. “I’m sorry, really, it’s just.” She shakes her head and tries, “Grayson, Adam did not write those songs about Auntie Vee any more than Elmo writes songs about you.”

“Yes, he did!” He sits up on his knees. He doesn’t like being talked down to. “He said that he loves a girl who likes strawberry ice cream and doesn’t read books. Auntie Vee doesn’t read books!”

That’s not a personality trait I’d like my five-year-old nephew to know.

“I read books, Gray,” I argue.

---