ship family belongings from Colombo to Montreal. A puzzling room, Rudy thinks, given his father’s aversion to the past, but on the other hand everything in the room is neatly shelved or framed, kept in its place, and it’s possible to imagine that this museum-like containment is a comfort. At the moment, Alec, curator of the trophy room’s artifacts, is sitting in the armchair next to the tea chest reading table, staring at the wall of photographs.
Rudy raises his hand to the half-open door then lowers it. He knows what will happen if he enters the trophy room with words of consolation. His father will rise from the chair and put a hand on his shoulder. He’ll say, “Thank you, son,” all the while looking not directly at Rudy but somewhere just off to the side, as if he were blind, or Rudy were invisible. Then he’ll pour himself a drink, maybe offer Rudy one as well, and go to the bookshelves, where he’ll examine the spines of his books with a show of great interest. And that will be that.
Seeing Aunty and Mark carrying dishes to the dining room, Rudy steps away from the door. He suspects it isn’t sympathy or understanding his father wants—not his, anyway—and with this in mind he returns sullenly to the kitchen to help with the food.
At Christmas lunch he sits next to Mark. Dad has appeared, thankfully, though he had to be called to the table three times. Zoë seems fine. Seated in her high chair, she clutches a wet cloth in her hands and sucks on it. The turkey has been carved, the curries uncovered. The dining room is so cramped and the food so plentiful that the windows of the china cabinet are steamed up. In the living room, Jim Reeves has been replaced by Andy Williams.
“We should have a toast,” says Aunty, last to take her place. “Who would like to do that? Adam?”
Adam nods and raises his glass of rosé. “I’d like to propose a toast to Aunty Mary, for carrying on the old traditions and for keeping our stomachs satisfied over the holidays. Merry Christmas!”
Rudy clinks his glass against Mark’s, while underneath the table his right heel taps and his left hand forms a tight, aimless fist.
“And God bless us all,” Aunty adds. “Now, eat, eat. The food will get cold.”
Rudy drinks down half his glass. As he piles his plate, conversations begin around the table and the useless tension in his arm gradually subsides. He glances at his father and clears his throat.
“So, Dad, I hear Australia’s set to wallop England in the test match.”
“What’s that? Oh, yes.”
“Are you gonna watch?”
“Mmm? No, no.”
“Do you think the English have had it in the cricketing world?”
“I suppose so.”
Rudy catches his aunt’s eye and shrugs. Aunty turns to her brother.
“Alec, you must tell me what you think of the beef. They didn’t have all the proper spices at the supermarket. No mustard seed, only the powder. And no green chilis.”
“I’m sure it’s fine, Mary.”
“Ah, but just fine isn’t good enough. Try it and tell me.”
“It’s delicious. Same as always.”
Suddenly, across the table from Rudy, Adam clinks his fork against his glass.
“I’d like to say something,” he announces, “so that we can all enjoy our lunch more.”
Turning to Dad, he continues. “About Zoë’s accident. Dada, it wasn’t your fault. I think you’re feeling badly about what happened, but no one is blaming you. You didn’t have time to grab her. It was an accident. Right, Susie?”
Susie nods. “Everything’s fine, Dada. Little ones fall and burn themselves all the time.”
Rudy watches his father uneasily. A public announcement isn’t what he’d have wanted. He would feel trapped. But Adam has never understood how to deal with Dad.
His expression unchanged, Alec swallows then sets his fork on his plate. “I appreciate your concern, Adam. But I think the root of the accident was that the child was left unsupervised. She should have been with Susie.”
At this, Susie’s eyes widen. “Dada, I can’t watch her every second! I was helping Aunty with dinner.”
“And besides,” Adam adds, “I was the one watching Zoë. Susie asked me to.”
Rudy stares into his plate, willing his brother to shut up.
“It’s just as I said,” Dad answers. “Zoë should have been with Susie.”
The reply—the particular emphasis on Susie—hangs over the table like the heavy clouds looming outside.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Adam says, his voice level.
Rudy shuts his eyes. If he had his brother’s nerve, he’d speak up. “You know exactly what it means,” he’d say. “You know precisely where this conversation is likely to end up, and you’re going there anyway.” Instead, he listens while Adam carries on.
“I don’t get it, Dad. Are you saying I’m not capable of looking after Zoë? It’s true I wasn’t right with her when the accident happened, but I was holding the turkey for Aunty. I don’t think it was any more my fault than it was yours.”
Here it comes, Rudy thinks. He looks at his father, whose face is now set in an expression of solemn concern.
“I take full responsibility for not intercepting the child sooner, and I apologize to Susie for that.” Dad nods in Susie’s direction. “But we are talking about a handicapped child who needs to be watched at all times, and I am simply suggesting that her mother—or her father—is a better person for that role than a boy who—”
“Alec!” Aunty Mary cuts him off. “Don’t spoil the lunch. You’re feeling upset about Zoë’s accident and you’re blaming everyone else. The thing is over now. Don’t think about it.”
“Who what?” Adam insists.
Rudy catches the faint sound of a skating needle. His father does-n’t answer. What could he say, really? That Zoë shouldn’t be left in the care of a young man who blows off a biology scholarship in order to take up history? That a young man who goes for long motorcycle rides with another young man shouldn’t be allowed to babysit? No. Observing the slight tremor in his father’s hands as he runs his fingers along the edge of the table, Rudy detects an uneasiness. Dad would rather call it quits, go back to small talk. But Adam doesn’t see this.
“What’s this really about, Dad? Is it about my babysitting abilities, or the rest of my life?” When Dad fails to answer, he presses stubbornly on. “I know you’re upset about my new plans, but I can’t change them. I know I made the right decision. Biology just wasn’t my thing. It’s not what I’m meant to do.” He pauses. “And if you’re talking about my sexual orientation, that’s not a choice. It’s like Zoë’s deafness.”
The word sexual sends Aunty Mary into a panic. “Adam! Such talk! You and your father are spoiling the lunch. Look—everyone has stopped
