Strangers at the Feast Read Online Free PDF Page A

in Pennsylvania but forgot to pay her own premiums. Adopting a child and buying a house within a three-month period was a lot to bite off, especially for Ginny.
    “Yes, yes, yes, Doug.” Her chin dipped with affectionate pity, always sorry for her businessman brother’s obsession with paperwork. “I have a tome on this house and you’re welcome to read through it if that’s your idea of a fun Thanksgiving.”
    “I’ll say two things and then I’ll stop: if they found even a hint of Radon you need to get an abatement system in here pronto, and for the love of Allah, make sure the electrical system is up-to-date. You’ve got two-prong outlets. I don’t want you turning on a light and going up in a bonfire.”
    “What about meteorites?” She shook his shoulder in mock terror. “Have you seen my roof?”
    “I’m not kidding, Gin. Look, I have an Estonian guy who’ll rewire this house for fifteen hundred dollars.”
    “How much for meteorite proofing?”
    “You got ibuprofen? I’m starting to feel a big pain in my ass.”
    “Aw, Dougie, I’m just being careful.”
    “You know, Ginny, if you do some rewiring and fix the roof, maybe get a paint job on the outside, you could probably flip this place in a year and make good money.”
    “No flipping!” Denise called from the living-room floor, flanked by the children. “Do not get your sister started on flipping.”
    He wished his wife wouldn’t act like as if his ventures had all been failures. Negative energy, too much negative energy. He wanted to remind her that she hadn’t complained when flipping made them a hundred grand in two years, or when he used the cash to fly them to Acapulco and to Disney World. She certainly hadn’t complained when he bought her a double-strand diamond bracelet. But he wasn’t going to argue; no, today was all about recharging his battery.
    “Now, Ginny, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, assuming that I don’t need to explain the dangers of lead paint.”
    Ginny threaded her arm through his. “How about a drink, Dougie?”
    “First things first. Where’s my new niece?”

ELEANOR
    Eleanor stood alone in the kitchen, examining the mess her daughter had made: potatoes and parsnips splayed all over the counter. Soiled cutting boards, balled-up plastic bags, and—well, Eleanor would have to rinse this out—a mug of coffee that appeared to be hours old.
    Eleanor was not surprised. For years Ginny had bristled at the idea of women in the kitchen, as though roasting a pork loin and baking raisin bread were acts of degradation. Also, Ginny had never much liked Thanksgiving, offering an almost undetectable rolling of the eyes each year as she arrived, which Eleanor thought stemmed from her daughter’s experience in Westport Elementary’s Thanksgiving play. Cast as the turkey at age nine (through no fault of Eleanor’s, Ginny was a plump child), Ginny wore a brown leotard with feathers and a red paper beak, and was required to squat onstage for the play’s full second act as the little Pilgrims and Indians circled her, singing “Oh, What a Harvest, What a Friendship!” As the curtain fell, several mischievous Pilgrim girls plucked the feathers Eleanor had spent hours gluing. Tucking her in that night, she braced for Ginny’s tearful query as to why she hadn’t been cast as a Pilgrim, preparing a full explanation of the inevitable misdeeds of ill-bred children and the importance of forgiveness. But Ginny merely lay beneath her blanket, working something through her head; finally she declared that during her time onstage she had thought long and hard about what it was like to be a turkey, to think turkey thoughts, to feel turkey feelings,and that henceforth (this was the year Ginny used “henceforth”), she would no longer eat animals.
    It delighted Eleanor that now her daughter was at least trying to cook.
    For there had been a time—years ago, admittedly—when Eleanor had thought Ginny would grow up to be