My Most Excellent Year (17 page)

Dear Betty,

You’re not the only only one who knows how to pick her scripts well.

THANKSGIVING AT TICK’S

A Play in Two Acts

P
ROLOGUE

I stay at my brother’s house on Wednesday night, the way I always do. Before we go to sleep, we lie in our beds and go over a list of candidates for the new things we’re grateful for this year, since Pop is going to ask everybody to name one of them when he starts carving the turkey.

AUGIE’S LIST

A
CT
I

By the time Tick and I have set the table and changed out of our pajamas into our good clothes, Pop’s already lit the fire in our big stone fireplace—and just as the house is beginning to smell like turkey, Aunt Babe (in her usual navy blue) and Aunt Ruth (in her usual yellow) show up from Washington. (They would have come in last night, but Aunt Ruth got out of Congress too late.) Since Aunt Babe made herself the family archivist years ago, she pulls out her digital camera and begins snapping before she’s even taken her coat off. In the meantime, Aunt Ruth makes me and Tick sit on the ottoman together while she opens up a Bloomingdale’s Big Brown Bag and gives us our Thanksgiving presents. We nearly don’t survive the shock.

“Holy crap!” we gasp, practically at the same time, with silver wrapping paper still stuck to our fingers. “iPods!!” Aunt Babe warns us not to confuse them with our Christmas presents, which we start getting tomorrow. Even after eight years, it’s all still a little overwhelming, especially for a kid who inherited this half of his family by default.
Andy’s not here yet. But that’s okay! His family is probably just sitting down to dinner.

Phyllis comes through the front door with a fruit compote, a
casserole dish, and two of her kids: eleven-year-old Jeremy (who immediately goes outside with Tick and Nehi for a game of catch—another tradition), and eight-year-old Chloe (who’s actually heard of George Gershwin). Then she takes over the kitchen by chasing Pop out of it.

“The only thing a man understands about an oven is how to clean it,” she says, shooing him away. “Now go and watch football.”
Andy ought to be starting on seconds. It won’t be long. Assuming he meant what he said and wasn’t just being casual. I don’t do “casual” well. He ought to know that.

Mom and Dad pull into the driveway with Grandma and Grandpa Der and Grandma Lily at the same time Uncle Piersall and Aunt Donna get there with their kids, Cy Young and Dennis Eckersley. Mom hands over her Dan-Dan noodles and String Bean Special to Phyllis, who’s become sort of the commander in chief of anything that has to do with food.
Okay. Andy’s probably getting into the car as we speak. Unless he’s having second thoughts. Or fifth ones.

Lori stops by to wish me and Tick a happy Thanksgiving, and Pop takes her to the garage so she can see the diorama that the three of us finished last night. (They’re out there for twenty-five minutes. Don’t tell me they’ve been discussing the Treasury Building for
that
long.) Lori says she’s really got to go, but she says it at the same time she’s taking off her coat and helping Pop set an extra place at the table. Tick’s right. Boys are like
so
much easier to figure out than girls.

Tick and I decide it’s a good time to call Alé to wish her a happy holiday. She doesn’t sound like she’s having all that much fun. They’ve made her wear a formal dress, the only thing on their TV is CNN, and Carlos brought home a visiting delegation from Nigeria.
As soon as Tick leaves the room, I let myself get neurotic over the phone.
“He despises the earth on which I walk. Otherwise why isn’t he here yet?” “Because he only said he
might
come over. Snap out of it. It’s Thanksgiving. Give yourself the day off!!”

Phyllis steps out of the kitchen and hands us our assignments:

Then I give myself one additional task:

By the time we’ve all been checked off Phyllis’s list, everybody is seated. Everybody. Eighteen people, a cocker spaniel, and one empty chair. Immortalized for all time when Aunt Babe’s camera flashes. I’ve never felt worse in my life. Oh, Andy. Where are you?
Color him gone.

“It’s still early,” Tick whispers into my right ear. “He’ll
be
here.”
No, he won’t. Cry me a river.
After we bow our heads, Pop says grace. This is a prayer we all worked on together so that no matter who joins our family, there won’t have to be any rewrites.

After the “amens” and the “l’chaims” and the “when do we eats,” Pop kicks off the Thanksgiving ritual: As he begins to carve the turkey (Nehi always gets two preliminary slivers first), he points to Phyllis and asks her what she’s thankful for. But before she can answer, two things happen: (1) the doorbell rings, and (2) my heart smashes headfirst into my sternum.
Let it be him let it be him let it be him let it be him
. Mom gets up to answer it and I can hear a voice mumbling from the hall. Meanwhile, I go through a fast inventory in my head:
UPS, FedEx, and the post office don’t deliver on Thanksgiving Day. So who
else
could it be??
When Mom comes back into the living room, she’s got an arm around Andy—who’s wearing a suit and carrying a bowl of homemade cranberry jelly. Tick elbows me with an “I told you so” sharp enough to break a rib, while Dad introduces Andy to the rest of the family.

“Uh—sorry I’m late,” he mumbles, staring down at the floor. “My father’s car wouldn’t start.” As he slides into the chair next to me, we have just enough time for a “Hi, Augie,” “Hi, Andy” before Phyllis tells us that she’s thankful for healthy kids and (with a nod to Andy) cranberries that don’t come from Ocean Spray. Then it was
our
turn.

“Andy and Augie?” asks Pop, coming around the table to stand behind us. “What are
you
grateful for?”

“New friends,” says Andy, glancing over at me with a shy smile.

“Doorbells,” I blurt automatically while the whole table breaks into laughter at the same time.
Does
every
body know??

*   *   *   *   *

The dinner plates have been cleared and we’re waiting for
three different kinds of pie. Tick and I are arguing about whether wishbones only count if they come from turkeys or whether chickens rate too, at the same time Dad and Andy are reviewing the backfield for today’s Packers game over a bowl of carrots. By complete accident, Andy’s right hand bumps against my left one down between our chairs, and all of a sudden the fingers tangle up together. Then it hits me.
Oh, my God!
We’re holding hands. The two of us. Under the table. Me and Andy Wexler. And
he
started it!
Okay, maybe it’s just for a second, and maybe that’s only long enough for one quick squeeze—but it’s out there, and nobody’ll ever be able to take it back.
HOLY SHIT! WE’RE ACTUALLY HOLDING
HANDS
!! ON
PURPOSE
!!

A
CT
II

I know there must have been more things that happened after 4:32 p.m., but who remembers? It was like the anesthetic I got before my appendix operation, except it lasted six hours and there were only dim flashes of reality: Tick took one of our chocolate turkeys over to Hucky, and the Dolphins won 40–21. People ate, people left, Andy and I avoided eyes, and Dad drove the Hwong family home. Next thing I knew it was dark and I was in bed. So I dropped a Barbra Streisand CD into my Discman and played myself to sleep with a song I used to hate. “He Touched Me.” It actually isn’t half as cheesy as I thought it was.

Love,

Augie

Dear Betty,

When Aunt Babe tells us she’s taking us out to buy our first couple of Christmas presents, she doesn’t mess around. But there are two rules that drive our parents crazy in the don’t-spoil-the-kids category: Rule 1: “If it’s something you want, it’s a Christmas present.” Rule 2: “If it’s something you didn’t ask for but that I think you should have anyway, it doesn’t count.” Technically, Tick’s Red Sox DVD and “1918 World Champions” sweatshirt clock in as genuine stocking stuffers, just like my Betty Hutton CD and the
Inside Daisy Clover
poster do. But the shirts and the slacks and the bomber jackets and the blue and gold wristwatches and the inkjet color printers don’t. It’s a good thing she rented a car. We never could have gotten all this stuff onto the Green Line.

Aunt Babe used to live five blocks away from Tick until Aunt Ruth was elected to the House of Representatives when we were
eight. After that they had to move to Washington—which is only a short shuttle flight, but it’s still too far when you miss somebody. Tick took it harder than I did because Aunt Babe was the one who stepped into the mother part of his life after his mom died—but we promised each other that when we grew up, we were going to buy an apartment near Congress so that we could have everybody we loved in our lives whenever we wanted, and not just on holidays.

The first time I met Aunt Babe was right after Tick and I decided to be brothers, which was the same week Aunt Babe opened her own law practice downtown. Pop took us to her office-warming, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t know what to expect. The only lady lawyer I’d ever heard of was Katharine Hepburn in
Adam’s Rib
, and you know how intimidating Katie could be. But I didn’t need to worry. It was a pretty big party with lots of important people there, but when Aunt Babe saw us step out of the elevator and onto the polished wood floors of the reception area (
great
place to sock-surf, by the way), she left the group of senators she was talking to and came toward us with her arms open wide. Guess who got the first hug?

T.C. AND AUGIE—SHOPPING TRIP

1. Breakfast at the Brookline Café (where, incidentally, Bobby Kennedy used to eat when he was attorney general)
   
2. Pick up Hucky at Children’s Residence
   
3. Red Sox Store
   
4. Tower Records
   
5. Filene’s Basement
   
6. Lunch at Pizzeria Regina
   
7. Cinema Collectibles
   
8. Faneuil Hall
   
9. Best Buy
   
10. Toys “R” Us
    
11. Dinner at Legal Sea Foods, Park Plaza
    
12. Surprise