Page 22 of Second Alarm

---

"Ty," Cal says, handing me a stack of plates. "Salad forks on the left, you always screw it up."

"I've never screwed it up."

"One time at Thanksgiving — "

"One time."

" — you put the salad fork on the right, Tyler, because you were raised in a barn — "

"I was raised in the same town as you, Calvin."

" — and I've never forgotten it."

"Your mother has forgotten it."

"She's a saint. She forgets everything out of charity."

"I don't forget anything," Mom Larsen says, from the stove. "I choose what to remember. These are different skills. Pot roast is ready. Hanna, honey, bring the rolls."

We sit. Mom Larsen at the foot, Cal at the head, Hanna and I across from each other, Tom's empty chair at the end. The pot roast is on a platter. The rolls are in the breadbasket Mom Larsen puts out when she wants us to slow down and chew. The grace is short. Mom Larsen doesn't like a long grace. She says that God already knows you're grateful and the man wants to eat.

"Before we start," Cal says, "I'd like to say a thing."

"Calvin." Mom Larsen doesn't look up.

"Mom — "

"I said no speeches."

"This isn't a speech."

"Every time you say this isn't a speech, Calvin, we get a speech."

"It's not a speech."

"Calvin."

"I'd just like to formally welcome Hanna home, now that we're all together, as a family, which I said I'd do, and I'm doing it."

"You did it," I say.

"I'm doing it again."

"Fine. Make it short," Mom Larsen says.

"Welcome home." Cal lifts his glass. "We love you. We missed you. We're proud of you."

Hanna, across the table, looks at her brother like he just stabbed her in the chest with a butter knife, and then she looks down at her napkin. "Okay, Cal."

"That's not short enough for a thank you?"

"Okay. Thank you, Cal."

"There we go."

"I love you too." Still looking at her napkin.

"I love you more."

---