Henry goes around the table. “Bernadette?” “Oh, maybe just a smidge.” Mama holds up her glass, her cheeks rosy. “Don’t judge me too harshly, Reverend. This is a special occasion, after all.” “I would have to be a pot calling a kettle black, now, wouldn’t I.” Reverend Enderbey takes a sip of his wine. Aliens must have landed in Greenbank, Pennsylvania, recently and possessed bodies because Henry was right—everyone accepted wine with dinner.
