Nora thought of Uncle Pete, who was sixty-eight and had had his first heart attack in March, lying on his back in the snow in his driveway in Scranton, trying to put chains on the tires of his Buick.
"No," she said. "No, Aunt Ro. Don't let him. Please. It's not worth it."
"You'll be all alone."
"I'll be fine."
"You'll be all alone in that house, on Thanksgiving." Aunt Rosemary's voice wobbled. "Your mother would never forgive me."
"Mom would want Uncle Pete to stay off the roads," Nora said. "Mom would have called you at six to tell you not to come."
Aunt Rosemary laughed wetly, because it was true. Then they talked for a while about nothing — the gravy, the twins, Aunt Dot's terrible new husband — and when Nora hung up the phone it rang again almost immediately, and it was cousin Lorraine from Erie, where it had snowed thirty inches, and after that it was Aunt Dot, and after that, at nine-thirty, it was Uncle Ambrose, who had not been told by anybody that the dinner was off and who wanted to know if he should bring his own rye or if she had some.