Good Grief (31 page)

“Gah! This is like having a roll of paper towels in your pants!”

“They have all kinds of maxi-mini skinny-thinny better ones at the store,” I tell her. “Wait until you see the choices.”

“I
know.
”

“Okay.”

Somehow, Crystal’s grateful and aggravated with me at the same time. I think I know how the mother of a teenage daughter must feel. Like an indispensable annoyance.

“Would you like a little glass of wine with dinner?” I ask her.

“Yes, please.”

Back in the kitchen, Dad and Jill are up and dressed, peeling potatoes at the table. They look like twins in their matching chamois shirts and khakis, laughing in unison as they work. I hope that by some miracle they die at the same time.

“How many should we peel?” Jill asks me, holding up a potato. Her white hair is cut into a pageboy that curls around her ears.

Ruth has arrived and she wants to know about the stuffing. “Should I cover it?” She seems irritated by the stuffing, holding it away from her as though it smells bad. She looks beautiful in her long brown velvet dress, her yellow hair fanning across her narrow waist. Simone clings to her legs, peering out shyly at Dad and Jill, who are trying to coax her across the room with a gingersnap. I’m about to tell Ruth not to worry about the stuffing when Crystal spins into the kitchen in her stocking feet.

“Hey, does this go?” she asks me, holding a necklace up to the collar of her dress. The dress has a black velvet bodice and long lacy sleeves that are pretty in a Gothic sort of way. As she does a pirouette to model the ensemble, she loses her balance and stumbles.

“Sophie?” Drew calls out raspily from the bedroom. “Hot tea?”

I turn from Dad to Jill to Ruth to Crystal toward my bedroom. Everyone is asking me what to do here. Wears-her-bathrobe-to-work
me.
I’m in charge.

“Peel all of the potatoes, please,” I tell Jill.

“Just throw some foil over it,” I tell Ruth. “Then sit down and relax.”

I put the kettle on for Drew’s tea.

“That looks pretty, honey,” I tell Crystal, clasping her necklace.

The doorbell rings; I answer it to find Jasper Jenkins standing on the porch in a Goodwill ensemble that suggests he might be color blind. His signature khakis are fastened with a woman’s belt, and he’s replaced Ethan’s ski sweater with a kelly green button-down shirt and a purple tie speckled with yellow diamonds. I feel silly for missing the sweater. Jasper’s outfit is finished off with a professorial tweed jacket, the too-short sleeves exposing tufts of curly white hair around his wrists. One arm is bent behind his back. He brings it forward to present a bouquet of gold mums tied with a red ribbon.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he says.

Stepping off the porch, I take the flowers and give him a hug. His scratchy blazer smells of cherry pipe tobacco. He smiles broadly, exposing a flash of glossy white dentures.

In the kitchen, I introduce Jasper. He’s more nervous and formal than usual, kneading his hands and bowing ceremoniously. Jill makes a fuss over the flowers, putting them in a vase on the hutch in the dining room.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Ruth asks Jasper.

“I’m off the sauce,” he tells her.

There’s a silence, the kitchen timer ticking. Pots of water for the potatoes and peas boil away on the stove, steam filling the room. Jasper dabs perspiration from his forehead with a tweed sleeve as Ruth pours him a ginger ale. Finally he sheds the jacket. The outline of his belly button looks like an eye peering through the thin knit fabric of his shirt.

Simone claps and points a finger at his white beard, which he seems to have trimmed for the occasion. “Santa!”

Soon the whole house smells like Thanksgiving—like sage, cinnamon, and pie filling that’s dribbled over onto the bottom of the oven and burned. The sky clears and sun filters through the dining room windows, making the crystal and china on the table twinkle. I’ve set out my grandmother’s silver, which I’ve rarely had occasion to use before today. There are a few odd pieces I’m unsure of.

“What’s this?” I ask Ruth, holding up a wide, flat, forklike spatula.

She pours ice water into the goblets. “Cucumber and tomato server,” she says. She points to another piece that I always assumed was for picking up ice cubes. “Asparagus tongs.”

“How did you
know
that?” Jill asks.

“She knows everything,” I tell her. “It’s annoying.”

Ruth sets the water pitcher on the buffet. “That thing would be handy to clean out the cat’s box,” she says bitterly, pointing to the tomato server. I notice that her hands tremble and her eyes are glassy with tears.

“You okay?” I ask Ruth after Jill leaves the room.

“Today is the first day of the rest of my nervous breakdown,” she says, running a finger through the condensation on the water pitcher.

“I know the holidays are hard.”

“Yeah. Mark called last night. He and Missy are back together for good.”

“I’m sorry.” Only a few weeks ago, Ruth and Mark had talked again about patching things up.

“Missy’s pregnant.”

“Oh, Ruth.” I give her a hug, closing my eyes, wishing there were something more I could do.

“Apparently my husband’s midlife crisis is a whole-life crisis.”

I’d like to assure her that she’s not going to be alone forever, but I’m not sure this is true for either of us.

“Who’s going to say grace?” Marion asks as we finally sit down to eat. Her face clouds with worry. She smoothes the napkin in her lap over and over, as if the cloth won’t hold still. “Charlie?”

There’s a moment of silence in which pained glances are exchanged across the table.

Dad bows his head. “Whoever you are up there, thank you for this wonderful meal and for bringing us together—”

“Amen!” Jasper says.

I don’t think Dad was finished, but he looks relieved. We begin passing the platters and bowls and tureens of food.

“Look at
this,
” Jill says of Marion’s yam puff, which is cobbled with a coating of golden brown marshmallows.

“That’s Drew’s stuffing with chestnuts,” I explain, “and that’s Crystal’s with white bread, and Marion’s with sausage.”

“Wow! Thank you,” Drew says with a nasally twang, cradling a cup of hot tea in his hands.

“Where’s my customized stuffing?” Ruth asks loudly. “You know how I like mine with oysters and prawns.” Missy and Mark have clearly ruined the day for her.

Crystal giggles. She looks up to Ruth when Ruth’s in smart-ass mode.

Jill fusses over Simone, buttering her roll and cutting her turkey into teeny pieces.

“Now what do
you
do?” Marion asks, turning to Jasper, who’s seated beside her. She sets her fork on her plate, brings two polished fingertips demurely to her lips, and bats her eyelashes. I wish I could have told her ten months ago that she’d be flirting with a guy who collects cans for a living.

“Sell real estate,” Jasper tells her. “Mostly commercial.” His gray hair is parted neatly in the middle and greased down a bit in two flat sheets.

“Oh,” Marion coos. “
Real
estate.”

I look at Ruth, who knows from what I’ve told her that Jasper used to sell life insurance but hasn’t worked for years.

“Big stuff,” Jasper continues. “Stores, office buildings, supermarkets.” He takes a bite of turkey.

“My,”
Marion says, splaying a hand across his sleeve. As far as I know, she’s never dated anyone since Charlie died. There was a man who played the cello in the San Jose Symphony, but they seemed to be just friends, meeting for coffee on Sunday afternoons.

“Don’t you usually lease commercial real estate?” Dad asks. “Rather than selling it?”

“Exactly,”
Jasper says, leaning over the table and pointing at Dad as though he’d just solved a great puzzle.

“Sophie has a commercial lease,” Crystal says proudly.

“Before that I was an inventor,” Jasper says, herding peas to the edge of his plate.

“What did you invent?” Drew asks him.

“Nondairy creamer.”

“Gross!” Crystal says.

“Well, I
like
it,” Jill says. “You know, in a pinch.”

“I must have gone through a case in college,” Ruth tells Jasper. She isn’t really touching her food, focusing instead on her wine.

All eyes are on Jasper. He basks in the attention, tipping back his head and gazing at the ceiling. “Convenience,” he says. “Every good invention addresses convenience.”

“Necessity is the mother of invention, and convenience is the father,” Dad says.

“You said it,” Jill agrees.

“I’d like to toast the chef,” Drew says raspily, raising his glass and winking at me. His hair is damp from the shower, and I can imagine his clean laundry smell. I think of how we made love as quietly as possible last night, how I bit into my lip until it stung as Drew tightened his hands around my shoulders. I look away, embarrassed. “To Sophie, the best cook I know. She’s what I’m most thankful for this year.”

“To the cook,” Dad agrees.

“We all cooked,” I say, raising my glass.

“To my beautiful bride, Jill,” Dad says. He always calls her his bride, even though they’ve been married a few years. “My KP duty partner.”

Jill giggles and squeezes Dad’s hand.

Poor Ruth! If there’s any more happy-loving coupleness at this table, she might stab herself with the asparagus tongs.

Jill raises her glass. “I’ve decided it’s important to love the life you get and somehow learn to let go of the life you dreamed of.”

I’m about to agree wholeheartedly when Ruth says, “Really? Do you have to love
all
of it? Even bad drapes and cheating husbands?”

Jill chokes a little on her stuffing. Dad pats her on the back, encourages her to sip water. I know it’s a bad day for Ruth, but she’s wrecking my fantasy Thanksgiving.

“You can switch bad drapes,” Crystal says.

“If you can
afford
to,” Ruth says dryly.

“I’m thankful for Argentina,” Jasper says.

“Me too,” Marion agrees. “Why?” she whispers to him.

Simone shrieks and bangs her spoon on her Dora the Explorer plate.

I want to say something to reroute the conversation, but mashed potatoes and disappointment clog my throat.

“I’m sorry, Jill,” Ruth says. “I’m the Grinch who stole Thanksgiving.”

“You’re too pretty to be the Grinch,” Crystal tells Ruth. I think this is the first compliment she’s ever paid Ruth, and I’m grateful for her timing. Crystal takes a big bite of mashed potatoes. “My dad?” she says through a mouthful. “He’s, like,
totally
handsome. If he ever moves back to town, you could marry him.” She flips her fork over and gives the tines a long lick. “Except he’s kind of a loser.”

“Where does your dad live?” Jill asks.

“On a fishing boat,” Crystal says tentatively. “I think. In, like, Alaska?”

“That’s neat,” Jill says, trying to muster enthusiasm for this bit of information.

I excuse myself to check on the pies.

As I pull the apple pie out of the oven, the smells of cinnamon and cloves embrace me like a tonic. I leave in the pecan pie to get a little browner, which is how Ethan always liked it—almost burned.

Suddenly Ruth’s beside me, clutching the gravy boat.

Crystal follows her, carrying an empty bread basket. “Dude, Marion and Jasper are
totally
hooking up,” she says.

“Really?” Ruth giggles, ladling more gravy into the boat.

“They’re holding
hands
under the table,” Crystal tells her.

“Oh, great,” I say.

“Why do you care?” Ruth asks, irritated.

“Because Marion’s enough to handle. Now I’ve got to deal with her tall-tale boyfriend, too?”

“You’d rather have Marion be lonely?” Ruth says.

Crystal hums nervously, refilling the bread basket.

“Of course not,” I tell Ruth. She doesn’t seem to understand that I’ve got a lot going on in the next few months: making it through the holiday season at the bakery, making sure Crystal passes Algebra I, making sure Marion doesn’t find the car keys and drive through the park’s duck pond. Right now I just want to make it through pie and coffee.

“Just because Jasper’s down on his luck,” Ruth continues. “You’re a snob—”

“No, I’m
not,
” I tell her. “You need a time-out. I’m going to lock you in the living room with a
Barney
video.”

Ruth’s regal posture stiffens. Then she slumps, laughing for the first time all day. “I’m sorry.” She covers her face with her delicate hands.

“Actually, it’s kind of a relief to see you misbehave for once,” I admit. “Usually you’re so perfect.”

Ruth snorts.

“Yeah,” Crystal agrees. “It’s annoying.”

“I know there’s nothing worse than the holidays when you’re single,” I say.

“How come?” Crystal asks.

Before I can answer, Jill bumps through the swinging door from the dining room, pinching the sleeve of her turtleneck, which is splashed with red wine.

“Sophie, have you got any soda water?” she asks, panicked.

Ruth lurches toward the refrigerator to check, obviously hoping to make it up to Jill. Dad swings through the door, wanting to help. Marion follows behind them, wondering if we should rewarm the yam puff.

Next, Jasper and Drew stride into the kitchen. Drew holds Simone, balancing her on his hip, his wineglass in the other hand. “Party moved in here?” he asks.

No one wants to sit at the dining room table anymore. The problem with Thanksgiving is that the pressure for the meal and the conversation to be perfect is daunting. Somehow it’s easier to hang back in the kitchen, picking turkey off the carcass, gossiping about the guests, and confessing your holiday dread.

The fan over the stove rattles and clanks. Drew turns it off and everyone sighs, enjoying the silence.

Ruth holds the gravy boat, Crystal holds the bread basket, Drew holds a new bottle of Cabernet, and Dad holds Jill’s hand.

“Shall we?” I ask the group. We all turn and file back into the dining room.

“Hey,” Ruth tells Crystal as she sits down, “I’m glad that you and my friend Sophie are such good cooks.”