Tilt (68 page)

to a murderous hag. Guess who

winds up roasted, sliced and

given

a prominent place on the table?

Shane

There Are a Dozen Place Settings

On our Thanksgiving table.

That, in itself, is remarkable.

The guest list is kind of crazy:

Mom and Dad

Gram and Gramps

Aunt Andrea and Dr. Malik

Steve and Cassandra

Harley, Chad and me

(Plus Shelby!)

It was Gram’s idea to include her.

An outsider could not understand

the meaning of that gesture. Shelby:

Never nibbled turkey skin

Never tasted pecan pie

(Did their magical perfumes

mean anything at all to a nose

completely uninfluenced

by a food-virgin tongue?)

I wish, just one time, I would have

touched some tiny taste of ambrosia

to her lips, some forbidden pleasure:

New York cheesecake

Crème brûlée

Pineapple sorbet

Hot fudge sundae

(With vanilla bean Häagen-Dazs

and homemade whipped cream)

And I wish, on more than one occasion,

she could have sat upright at our dining

room table, one of a family of four. Shelby:

Comfortable in a velvet chair

Holding her own silver fork

Over one of Mom’s good china plates

Wiping her mouth with a linen napkin

Talking about her favorite Disney show

(Or taking a drive with me)

I Fantasize About That

As the very much still alive

(at least in most ways) rest of the guest

list sits down to dinner. Even without

Shelby, it’s a very strange cast of players.

All of whom pretend it’s not. All

of whom, for whatever reasons, are grateful

to be able to pretend it’s not. And that,

for my own reasons, includes me.

The dialogue, stilted at first, begins

to pick up speed as the food arrives.

Gram (putting bowls on the table):

Sorry Alex couldn’t join us. How is he?

“He’s feeling better, but thought he should

spend Thanksgiving with his family.”

Gramps (spooning candied yams):

Hey, now. We’re his extended family.

Cassandra (passing the cranberry

sauce):
Yay for extended families!

Steve (slugging fine wine):
Yes.

Thanks very much for the invite.

Chad (eyeing Dad’s turkey slicing):

Ditto. Real food for a change.

Mom (quickly to avert a retort):

Everything set for your wedding?

Cassie (overjoyed):
I hope so! Only

a week away. You
are
all coming?

Mom and Dad exchange curious

glances with Gram and Gramps.

I ask the question they’re afraid to.

“Were we invited?” Pretty sure not.

Harley (panicked):
Oh my God.

Didn’t I mail your invitations?

Aunt Andrea:
Harley! How could . . . ?

The doctor puts his hand on her arm.

Cassie:
You didn’t? But you prom—

Chad (guffawing):
Way to go, Harl!

It Is Dad Who Comes to the Rescue

He bangs down the carving knife,

like a judge wielding his gavel.
Okay,

everyone, let’s fill our plates and say

grace. We will all be at the wedding.

The relief, at least on the far end

of the table, is palpable. The food

goes around at dizzying speed, a blur

of, as Chad called it, real food.

Now Dad motions for everyone

to link hands.
Heavenly Father.

Bless this table and all who sit here

surrounded by your presence.

Allow us to abandon our mourning

in favor of coming celebration.

Forgive our mistakes and please

let those who have been hurt by them

find the grace to forgive them, too.

We are thankful for this bounty,

each other, and you. In Christ’s

name we pray. Amen.
Echoed amens.

Waves of Food

And drifts of conversation make me

a little woozy. No one seems to notice

that I pick at my food, much like

Cassandra does. She probably wants

to make sure she can fit in her size-skinny

wedding dress, which I will,

apparently, see if Dad has his way.

Eventually nothing much besides

gravy is left on the dinner plates.

Gentlemen,
says Gramps.
Why

don’t we clear so the ladies can

bring out the pie. I’ve had a peek.

Hope you all saved lots of room.

There are a few groans and several

yum
s and with all the guys helping,

the dirties disappear quickly. I stash

a few bites of leftover turkey for Gaga,

who I had to leave shut up in my room.

Earlier, I caught her on the counter

sniffing the cooling fowl. Feline!

I take it to her, a peace offering, and

by the time I get back to the table,

it is covered with pies. Lemon. Cherry.

Pecan. Apple. And the requisite pumpkin.

The girls are busy cutting and taking

orders. I ask for a small slice of cherry.

Soon, everyone has a piece, even

Cassandra, who managed the thinnest

wedge of apple I have ever seen.

Now Gramps says,
I think the chefs

of this fabulous feast deserve a toast.

He pops a bottle of champagne,

then another. Mom and Dad find

crystal flutes in the hutch, Steve

helps fill them. Gramps glances

around the table.
How about the kids?

Generously (foolishly?), the parents

nod okay. Interestingly enough, it

is Harley who grabs a glass first.

Chad and I follow, and everyone

raises a toast to Mom and Gram

and Andrea, who brought the veggies

and the lemon pie. I sip the sparkly

slowly. No use calling attention

to myself. Besides, in my room I have

something stronger stashed for later.

It’s Really Sort of Surprising

That my parents haven’t missed

the alcohol that keeps vanishing

from the kitchen cabinet. To be

sure, there was a lot—bottles bought

and bottles gifted over the years.

I keep pulling them forward,

but sooner or later you’d think

someone would notice. Maybe

they will. And maybe that’s what

I’m hoping for, that Mom or Dad

will notice and care enough to say

something. Tonight was nice, I guess.

But you have to wonder where

this small sense of family retreats

to when it isn’t a holiday. I’m sure

part of the problem used to be Shelby.

Doesn’t seem fair that it took her

dying to bring us closer again.

Post Pie

The guests retire to the living

room. Gramps opens the piano

and this time decides to sing

amped-up Christmas carols.

The season is almost upon us,