Free The Comfort of Black by Carter Wilson Page B

night. The turkey, glowing in a golden hue, is surrounded by a multitude of side dishes of various colors and textures, together creating a perfect Rockwellian image of a holiday feast. Of warmth and abundance. Thankfulness.
    Billy pulls his chair out and sits down before anyone else. Then he dips into his torn shirt pocket for a Pall Mall and lights it, coughing out the first puff.
    Where’s the goddamn carvin’ knife?
    Hannah’s mother walks—no,
scurries
—across the kitchen and hands him a long silver blade and a sharpening stick. Hannah thinks she sees hesitation in her mother’s face as she passes the knife over, as if handing a loaded gun to a child. Billy takes the knife in one hand and with slow, practiced movements he scrapes the blade against the sharpening stick, alternating sides.
    Ssssskkk. Ssssskkk
.
    Hannah sits at the table next to her father. Justine is not there. In the dream, Justine is never there.
    Billy looks up from the blade, his long, soft hair dangling down to his nose. He glares at her, the cigarette perched on his lower lip, a small fleck of ash drifting like a leaf falling from a dying tree, floating and falling onto the deep-brown skin of the turkey.
    Your momma overcooked this thing, I just know it
.
    Back to the blade.
    Ssssskkk. Ssssskkk
.
    Billy stops, tests the blade with a calloused thumb, then reststhe edge of the knife against the crisped flesh of the bird. He sets down the sharpener and picks up a fork, then slowly pushes the tines into the flesh. His right hand draws the blade back along the skin, and Hannah watches the heat rise from the open wound like steam from an urban sewer grate. He peels back the meat and peers inside. After a few seconds of silence, Billy draws his gaze up to his wife, and Hannah sees the pupils in his eyes constrict into little black dots.
    You ruined our Thanksgiving, you worthless bitch
.
    * * *
    Hannah woke to a familiar ringtone. It took her a moment to orient herself, to realize she wasn’t in the past but having a dream. Sweat glazed her face and chest, and as she pushed herself up in bed, the sheets fell off her, her skin instantly cooling in the bedroom’s midnight air. She’d been having the Billy Dream but didn’t make it to the really bad part. Thank God for small favors.
    Hannah reached over to the bedside table and seized the phone. The glow cast a shallow spotlight on Zoo, who slept next to her on the bed.
    She was in her sister’s house, in the guest bedroom. For a half a second she didn’t remember why, but it all flooded back to her the instant she saw the name on the screen.
    Dallin
.
    She didn’t answer, and a few seconds later the ringing stopped. The name on the screen disappeared, replaced with the time. Just after two in the morning. Hannah stared at the phone and waited to see if the voice mail icon appeared. It took her a moment before she realized she was holding her breath. As she exhaled, she was aware of how rapidly her heart was beating.
    No voice mail. Either he was leaving her an exceptionally long message, or none at all. Hannah released a more controlled breath, grounded herself in her thoughts, and loosened her grip on the phone. Minutes passed, and as her mind raced with the possibilities of what he wanted to say to her, sleep began to creepup over her once again. She fought it weakly, powerless against her fatigue but not wanting to return to the dream.
    Hannah reached a hand out to Zoo and rested it on his side, wanting to feel his bristly fur, his warmth, as she drifted back into the void. Finally, the long fingers of sleep reached out and pulled her underneath the surface.
    The phone rang again.
    Hannah bolted awake, and this time Zoo stirred with her, raising his head in alert.
    She grabbed the phone and, without allowing herself to mull over the decision, answered.
    â€œWhat?” she said.
    â€œAre you coming home?” His voice was dry and