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"Beautiful," Rufus says, addressing his wife, "I think I speak for everyone when I say this looks absolutely scrumptious."

Rufus rises and steps behind Andy, Beth, and Vi—a haggard-looking bunch. The ladies have been helped into two of Maxine’s faded house dresses. Andy wears one of Rufus’s tattered leisure suits—too tall and too narrow in the shoulders.

"Would Miss Violet care for some cranberry relish?" Rufus asks.

Vi looks up over her shoulder and smiles at the vibrating three-headed god.

"Ha-ha-ha, yes Miss Violet would."

Rufus scoops a spoonful of relish onto her plate and inquires if she’d care for a serving of mashed potatoes and gravy.

"Oh please. I’m eating for two, you know."

"Is that right?" Rufus says. "Well, I’ll be."

Vi’s head seizures intensely for five seconds.

"Thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhat was fun!"

Luther reaches for the broccoli casserole.

"Boy!" Maxine yells. "Not until the guests are served!"

When Rufus has finished serving the twitching threesome, he returns to his chair at the head of the table, removes his Santa hat, and says, "Dig in, everybody."

As the platters are passed around, Horace watches the three tremblers across the table try to feed themselves. Roughly one out of every three attempts ends in someone missing their mouth and shoving the food directly into their face. When Beth inserts a spoonful of yams down the neck of her dress, Vi giggles, then chokes and snorts mashed potatoes through her nose. The entire table laughs, and Rufus says, "Boy, the Christmas cheer is just palpable."

Then the party goes quiet and the room fills with eating sounds. Luther’s plate is covered in raw oysters on half shells. He lifts one after another, shaking a few drops of Tabasco sauce onto the cool oyster, and sucking it down his throat like a swallow of briny spicy snot.

"Oh my God!" Andy suddenly exclaims, peering at something under the table.

Rufus finishes off a hushpuppy and gently takes hold of Andy’s arm.

"What is it, Andy?" he asks.

"What happened to my leg?"

"Oh," Rufus chuckles. "Had to do a little surgery. That bear trap nearly took it off. I told Luther it was too big a snare. You almost lost the leg. Thought I might have to saw it off. Yeah, that’s about ninety stitches there."

Andy glares at Rufus, his head convulsing violently, then bursts out in laughter.

"Thank you!" Andy shouts.

Rufus lifts his fork, smiling, "Merry Christmas, Andy, you get to keep your leg!"

Again, the table erupts in laughter, everybody but Horace, who just stares at his plate, food uneaten, tears welling from his bloodshot eyes.

"Why the long face, boy?" Maxine asks. "You ain’t hungry?"

"He’s just nervous, Beautiful," Rufus says. "Totally understandable. He’s waiting for the verdict. Show everybody your book, Horace."

The boy lifts the slim leather journal up from his lap for everyone to see.

"That right there is Horace Boone’s Philosophy of Evil."

"I didn’t know you were a writer," Vi says.

Beth has passed out in her food.

Andy stares at a grouping of peas on his plate, mesmerized.

"That’s wonderful," Maxine says, "what you got to be nervous about, boy?"

"It’s shit," Rufus says. "That’s what he’s got to be nervous about."

Horace buries his face in his hands.

"I told him the first night he was here, ‘Horace, I didn’t invite you. If you want to stay, convince me you’re worth it.’"

Rufus takes a half shell from his son’s plate and sucks out the oyster.

Wiping his mouth, he continues, "I told him about my collection of treatises. I explained what would happen if I didn’t find favor with his, and he accepted the risk. So Horace, look at me you big crybaby."

Horace looks across the table at the hideous Santa Claus.

"For the record, I have not found favor with your treatise. Your rage is great, but your mind is small. You long to burn people. To smell cooked flesh. Eat human ash. Interesting cravings, sure, but Horace, you would murder without calm. You’d do it out of fear and confusion and rage. It would be brutal, but it would serve your deficiency, not