No one laughed. I said: “That’s a joke.” Still silence. “Because his face is orange-ish…” A sister in-law’s mom chuckled softly. It was the least full of gratitude or happiness I’ve seen a group of people at Thanksgiving. No apparent capacity for humility, or levity, beyond the odd racist remark.

The least shrewd passed around a meme on his phone to everyone except me, but I intercepted it and saw a portrait of Trump made of charcuterie with a caption about showing support at Thanksgiving without discussing politics. The POTUS’ face was salami, so I joked they’d gotten the color correct.

I drank non-alcoholic spritzers to lessen my chances of saying something irreparable, and listened to my family admire the arsenal in the human-sized gun safe expertly installed flush with the wall, and the skills of the taxidermist who’d prepared their wall decor.