Thanksgiving, 1962

AS HELEN AND CJ applauded, Mrs. Stevenson set the turkey in front of her husband. The bird was golden-brown and aromatic, large enough to feed three times their numbers.

CJ had never seen anyone use an electric knife before. Instead of picking it up, Mr. Stevenson looked at CJ and asked, “Would you do the honors, Carlton?”

“Excuse me?”

“Say grace?”

CJ had never said grace in his life. He shot a glance at Helen across the table, who nodded.

“Of course,” said CJ.

Mrs. Stevenson smiled at him.

CJ closed his eyes, getting ready, then opened them.

“Thank you,” he began. He stopped and started over. “Dear Lord. Thank you for the bounty of food we enjoy today and for the opportunity to share it with family and loved ones. Let's not forget the noble savages whose kindness got us through our first winter, even though we later rewarded them with a policy of genocide that--”

Mr. Stevenson bolted to his feet with such effort that his chair toppled to the floor.

“That's enough!” he said.

He was so red in the face that CJ wondered if he were having a stroke. He turned and hurried out of the dining room.

Helen was on her feet, also red but rising more carefully, and chased after her father.

CJ closed his eyes again. What had possessed him? How could he be so stupid?

When he looked up, Mrs. Stevenson was smiling at him.

“Carlton, would you carve the turkey, please? You do know how to use an electric knife, don't you?”

From Sodom, Gomorrah & Jones