It seemed to work, and though we never, ever discussed the plan again, we kept it up annually.

or so, reflecting on the gaffes Chuck committed this year. Then we all padded back into the living room, turned the lights back on, and watched TV until 11:00 p.m. After my father had turned out the lights, Chuck felt awkward enough that he left. sharp, we all retired to our bedrooms and put on pajamas, pretending that it was our bedtime. I remember my mother explaining the new plan to me, on a bright Thanksgiving morning when I was 5, and I remember Operation: Get Rid of Chuck kicking into action: at 8:00 p.m. The football games would go on and on, and there Chuck would sit, beer in hand, irritating everyone, refusing to leave. He would drink beer after beer, trying to egg my father on in matters of politics and religion. Thanksgiving always seemed like the biggest holiday for Uncle Chuck: He would sit on our couch, which my mother would cover with a clean bed sheet before he arrived in order to save the furniture from his ripe and, at times, fungal smell. A confirmed bachelor, Chuck haunted our family holidays like a ghost wrapped in a foul-smelling, beige cloth. My father's brother, Uncle Chuck, was a man apart: apart from hygiene, apart from manners, apart from any social life outside of his addiction to dog-track racing and the creepy world of the United States Postal Service, where he worked.