On Christmas eve, Jude drove to his brother’s house. The sun hung low. He pulled up and parked. Everything looked the same as the year before—the rows of brick, a tree with lights, an inflatable Santa. Nothing was.
Gabe’s wife, Linda, had promised to keep it light. She called Jude inside, gave him a hug, and started laying out food on a tablecloth: a salad, a quiche, bacon, a bowl of chopped fruit, and an assortment of crackers and cheese. She was small and contained, a delicate person, but the clasp on her velvet jacket broke open when she bellowed up the stairs. “Boys, he’s here!”
