11. Poor Becky

“I don’t want to have to bring stuffing again! He hates my stuffing!” The answering machine message from my sister Becky rang out. “Why does Mom make me bring it? She knows that he will hate it! I can just buy some, but then she will complain that it’s dry or something. Can’t you make it?” she paused to sigh. “But I guess you two are already making three or four fabulous things to bring…”

Deciding to ignore the obvious gay stab with the word ‘fabulous’ so critically placed, I prayed Thad had not heard it, as he would not overlook it.    

The message continued: “So can you just bring stuffing too? Please!”

The machine was silent for a second and then there was the noise of a great sucking in of air, as if a drowning man had just risen to the surface of the water to gasp his last breath, and then the message ended with a loud beep.

“It sounded like she just swallowed her tongue,” Thad said walking by the room with a laundry basket. “All over stuffing.”  

“Yeah,” I jumped; glad he had not heard her jibe. I hoped she was okay.

I was two when Rebecca was born, apparently under a bad star. I had always loved her, loved having a baby sister to take care of, to talk to when she was sad, to make laugh when she was happy, and to listen to when she was mad. But in the last few years our relationship had become somewhat strained as her life had become... complicated.    

Becky had never much succeeded at work, life, love or any combination thereof. I sympathized with her plight because we were both misfits of a crappy childhood dominated by an evil stepfather, both unprepared for the ugly actuality of the real world. But whereas I had gone to therapy and learned to take my childhood pain and roll it appropriately away so that I could have a semblance of an adult life, Becky had not. Becky refused to see a shrink and thus had more folded her pain up and tucked it into a drawer, but brought it out each weekend for a good airing. And at 39, Becky was now beginning to stand apart from me in the most astoundingly particular ways.

And with Thanksgiving in just four days, I assumed the current fit would only continue to amass.

I called her back and she did not answer, so I left a message, knowing she was standing in her apartment, arms crossed, frowning at the machine.

 “Yes, we can bring the stuffing,” I said. “Smith likes Thad’s stuffing, if you can believe it. You can just bring a pumpkin pie from the store. Call me. It’ll be fine. And calm down.”

I sat and cradled the phone, waiting for her to digest that, calm down, and call me back. It was a game you had to play with her if you wanted to talk to her when she was upset. I was fine with it, as it was who she was.  

Becky had never really fit in. She had been a somewhat popular and rather pretty girl, but not popular and pretty enough to be a cheerleader, a fact for which she had never forgiven God. Like myself, her weight had always gotten the better of her and she likewise had always had to fight it. This was another thing she had never forgiven the Almighty for. And, like me, she dieted and struggled and purged and binged, and basically still stayed heavy no matter what she did.

She married her one true love, Ray Phillips, five years ago, after two years of dating. He had finally proposed to her in Red Lobster with a cheap Sears ring, but she was thrilled. We all knew from her that he had cheated on her once, maybe twice, but we faked complete enthusiasm. They were married for one good month, and then had a series of fights that led them to separate last Valentine’s Day, after four years. He had moved to Oklahoma City to ‘think about things.’

The first few months she saw him every week or so, but that tapered off and now it had been three months since she had seen him. They still talked on the phone, but he said he was just ‘too damn busy’ to make it down, and she said she believed him. And now his phone calls were coming less and less frequently. Yet they were still officially married, and she still kept his name and wore the cheap Sears ring. Becky handled this by not speaking of the separation to us, and we did the same in her presence.  

I dialed her again and let it ring, but did not leave a second message. I assumed she was real tore-up by this as one follow-up call usually got her.  

Becky lived in her and Ray’s old apartment across town with her two white Persian cats, Fred and Ginger, who she combed obsessively. It was a fastidious place she kept bone cold at all times. Through whatever internal mechanics had wound me tight as a Swiss clock, Becky had been wound even tighter, God love her. Her OCD was so impressive it should be the spokeswoman for its own line of cleaning products. For this I felt much sympathy for her: OCD was a cruelly calculatingly and rigorous mistress, especially on the spouse, as my dear Thaddeus countlessly liked to remind me.

She worked as a receptionist at the Happy Daze Travel Agency on Campus Corner. It was a hack job but it paid her bills, although you could tell she wanted more. She carried herself with a certain haughtiness that Thad said “must run in the family.” She always wanted things to be pretty and expensive and exact; which were traits I respected in her. On a good day Thad thought her a prima donna task master who made Martha Stewart look like a homeless mess.  On a bad day he just called her a witch.   

Becky was smart, with a vorpal tongue, but had never finished college. She had said she would go back and finish once Ray made an honest women out of her, but she never had. For the first few years after they were married she spoke of going back and finishing, especially whenever Smith would make fun of her about it, but now recently despondent, she never spoke of it anymore. You could tell she was ashamed by this, so we never brought it up. 

Thad walked into the Den to gather some laundry from the closet, “Did you get a hold of Poor Becky?” That is what he called her.  

“No. But I left her a message.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t trained Fred and Ginger to answer the phone yet, she’s such a Nazi. ‘Answer it!’” He barked in a mockery in her voice, then in the voice of the cats, “’No, please Master Becky! No!’” and then back in his voice, “You know she takes a switch to them when they’re bad. No wonder they’re so well behaved. I can’t imagine doing that to Charlotte. Those poor cats have got to just be terrified of her. I know I am.”

Thad left the room with a laugh.

Becky and Thad did not get along, even though they had known each other since high school. They had never been friends, but were in the same graduating class, back before I ever knew who Thad was. Becky was in band and played the flute while Thad stood outside with the punk rock kids and smoked cigarettes and failed classes.

Thad said the reason Becky didn’t like him was because she was jealous that she didn’t have the life we had. She was usually cold and condescending to him, but he was just pissy and snide back. Becky told me she had never trusted Thad since he had made out with her at an 11^th grade pool party and then tried to sell her weed. At school the next week, apparently with a little crush, she tried to talk to him, but he didn’t remember her and laughed about being blackout drunk at the party. And then he tried to sell her weed again, there in the smoking section outside the High School Cafeteria. Let me tell you how fast Becky related that story to Mom as soon as I brought Thad home a few years ago and introduced him to everyone. To this day, Mother still holds onto her purse whenever Thad walks by, even though I’ve told her he’s clean and sober now.   

Thad stuck his head back in the Den, “Did you tell her I would just make my stuffing?”

“Yes, and told her to just go buy a pie.”

“Good.” Thad said coming into the room with his laundry basket, “You know she’s a good cook-I mean not as good as me, but passable- if she would just try less complicated recipes. She always wants to do something with goat head cheese or rutabaga or the zest of anise. She should just cut to the chase, add a lot of butter and salt and just call it good like I do.”

“You are excellent cook.”

“Thank you,” Thad smiled.

I continued, “Becky just wants everything grand and brought in a royal plate, so she makes aspic with walnuts and camembert fruit frittatas…”

“Oh God,” Thad interrupted, “Do you remember that raisin rum cake she made that was so full of alcohol I was afraid it was going to catch fire?”

“Yes!” I laughed, “That was last Christmases. She was so proud of that, but once it came out of the pan it just ran everywhere.”

“Oh, and she cried and cried that day,” Thad sighed sarcastically. “And now here we are looking down the barrel of another holiday.” He paused. “Has she heard from Ray yet?” 

“No. Not in weeks,” I sighed.

“That’s too bad.” He said.

“Yup.”

The phone rang and I reached for it, “Hello?”

“Michael, it’s me” Becky said quietly into the phone. “So you two can make the stuffing too?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“And Thad’s not going to rile me about it?”

“No, no. It’ll be fine,” Without thinking I waved Thad away, which I should not have done, as it always infuriated him. He instead frowned, sat down the laundry basket, and put his hands petulantly on his hips.

“You’re sure?” She continued, “I just don’t want a repeat of Mom’s birthday, where he snapped at me because I brought a store bought cake instead of making a homemade one…”

“No, no,” I said quietly, turning completely away from him, “It’ll be fine…”

Thad apparently figured out what I was doing and walked over to snatch the phone away from me.

“Oh, hi Becky. Yeah, hi. It’s Thad.” He gave me a smiley fake grimace and turned away with the phone. “So I will go ahead and just make the stuffing. It’s okay. We’re already doing my mashed potatoes, candied yams, green bean casserole, and cornbread, but I can just add it in….And make it…Um, hum….Yes…Not  a problem….Oh, probably just Stove Top and then I add some stuff…No, I haven’t had it with oysters…” he looked at me and made a gagging motion, then back to her, “I’ll put apples in it, maybe some almonds….Yes...No... It’s fine, I can take care of it…Yes, that’s okay…”

He stared walking back and forth quickly and I could tell he was just about to lose it.    

“Yeah…” he continued, his voice getting pitchy, “Well, lookit, here’s Mike back….yeah…gotta go!” and he just thrust the phone back at me and stomped out of the room, with a dramatic wave of his hands and a muttered “Jesus H. Christ…”  

“Hey, Beck, so it sounds like you two got it covered.”

“I don’t appreciate it when Thad treats me like that,” she growled into the phone.

“What?” I said, hoping to God he didn’t come back.

“When he treats me like a complete fool,” she continued, “Like I have no idea how to make stuffing. I know he’s a good cook and all, but I thought he’d just like to hear some of my ideas, but I could totally tell he didn’t care one bit…”

In my quietest voice I said, “Ignore him. He’s just in one of his moods…”

And from the other room Thad burst out, “What did you just say?”

“Look, I have to go Becky.” I said rising, as I was more intimidating to Thad at my full height, rather than splayed out on the couch.

“Oh, did Le petite prince hear?” She said smugly.

Thad came running into the room, “Get off the phone!”
          “Becky, I have to go…” I screamed into the receiver.

“Whatever Michael! I’m not one to tell you how to run your relationship…” was all I heard before I hung up on her.  

“What do you mean, ‘In one of my moods’? That’s just you taking her side like you always do!” Thad spat.

“Well, were you snarky to her? She said you were, about the stuffing. You know how sensitive she is.” I could tell he was not really upset, just bored and in need of my attention. He hated Becky for the affection I showed her, as if that somehow took away some of my affection towards him. They both were like big eight year olds, with me the toy they fought over for no particular reason.

“No!” He screamed. “Well she is just crazy! This is about stuffing! She needs to be committed!”

And as we got into it I wondered if maybe Becky had the better deal, what with a misplaced spouse, a sterilized cold house and the ever over-combed, but silent, Fred and Ginger.  

12. Turkey Day: Round 1

As we pulled up in front of Mom and Smith’s palatial home across town, I felt my heart beating in my throat. I hated family events. Hated them. Hated Smith.

“Hey, you okay?” Thad asked, a hand on my arm.  

“Yeah, sure,” I lied. “This’ll be fun.”

“Just take a deep breath. We don’t have to stay long. And if he’s awful just come and get me and I’ll defend you. Remember, he doesn’t scare me, okay?”

“Thanks.” I looked Thad in the eyes. For all of the snipping and bickering and mistrusting and backstabbing we did, this here made up for it: I knew he would have my back and defend me against Smith any time, any place. At times like this, when he was my champion, I was reminded why I loved him.  

“No problem.” He said with his wicked smile. “You get the mashed potatoes and corn bread. I’ll get the other two dishes.”

We gathered our things and walked up to the big teak front doors, the November wind whipping about us.

My parents divorced in 1976 when I was 8 and Becky was 6. I had only seen my real father twice since then, once when I was 10 when he came for a short visit, and another time when I was 14, but I only saw him as he drove off that time. I found Mom and Becky inside crying. Mom had said they had divorced because of their ‘differences,’ but would not talk about it otherwise. I don’t remember much about him. I think he lives in Vegas now, but as he’s never made an effort to contact me, I never made the effort to contact him. Becky found his address a few years back and wrote him letters for a few months around the time of her wedding. He never responded so she just let it go, the way he let us go. Through my therapy I’ve become okay with it, but Becky, not so much.

My Mother, Trudy Morgan-Stiles-Svenson, greeted us at the door, dressed in her rosy finest, squinting into the sun. She was 64, a short rotund brunette woman, filled with joy and prescription pills.  

“Oh, hello boys!” She said, “Come on it! It smells great!”

We piled in. The minimalisticly decorated house was set with small touches of red and gold fall leaves and hand carved gourd candle holders. Becky waved from the sterile formal living room.

Mother was nearing sixty-five, but her girth afforded her fewer wrinkles for a woman her age. She was short, like Becky, but had bright red dyed hair, the color of a drag queen’s dreams. She wore a cockatiel colored pantsuit with a gold cornucopia broach on her lapel. She always smiled.

Taking one of the dishes from Thad, she addressed him, “Oh, these smell so yummy. What is it?”  

“Oh, that’s the candied yams. I made my own marshmallows…” he gushed. 

“Oohh!” she squealed. “I can’t wait to try them!”

“I know!” Thad said, “It’s a recipes from that blousy drunk blonde from the Food Network, and it’s just to die for!”

“He’s been cooking all week for this,” I said, holding the door as they went into the kitchen, giggling.

I had come out to my family late in life, at 33, but was so glad I finally did. I think I just had to really be sure about it before I said anything. I told Becky first, but swore her to secrecy. She said she had always known because since I was a kid I always referred to my clothes as ‘outfits.’ A few months later I came out to Mom & Smith, in a respectful and quiet way. Mother was fine with it, besides a little Baptist crying. Smith had just grunted, but I didn’t particularly care and he knew that. I was happy Mom didn’t flip out or die or try to change me or something. I guess they always knew. It’s not like I wasn’t a flamboyant child or anything. 

 Then when Thad and I got back together a few years ago, I finally introduced him to the family as my boyfriend, and they politely took to him. Mother was gracious and Smith cold and nonchalant, as was his way. At least they weren’t rude or freaked out, but I could tell they still had some reservations, especially about Thad's, shall we say, checkered past (Thank you Becky). But Mother faked it well, and Smith hated everything, so his coolness to Thad was nothing special, thus it had worked so far. But this was only Thad’s second Family Thanksgiving, and I could tell he was nervous, as was I, but for different reasons.      

I walked into the living room to see Becky. At 39, she looked like a blonde Mom, short and round, but not happy about it. She sat amid the overstuffed tan and peach Mathis Brothers furniture, surmounted by pillows covered in chocolate cowboy fringe.   
“Hey,” she said, throwing down a magazine and walking over to me. “Watch out. He’s on tear.” She wore a green velveteen track suit, with her blond shoulder-length hair pulled up into a smart pony tail.

“Smith?”

“Smith. Earlier he walked by me while I was eating a deviled egg and I swear I heard him make a piggy sound.”

“No!”

“Yes!” She said, looking around cautiously. “Mom said he’s mad about the pool or something. It didn’t get winterized right, or something, and now he has to have the guys back out to redo it or something. And, of course, he blames her for it.”

“So he’s mad about money; that he’ll have to pay the pool guys again.”

“Money. As always.”

“What about money?” Smith said from behind us in his odd Swedish accent.  

Becky let out a small shriek and stepped back, eyes down.

I turned and forced myself to look casual.

Smith stood frowning, his eyebrows bent down at odd angles. He wore an old grey suit, his white hair cut short, his matching beard and mustache trimmed neatly. He had to be nearing 70, but he had always seemed old to me. He had all the charms of Max Van Sydow from that movie where he plays chess with Death.

“Oh, just talk about bills. It’s nothing.” I said. “How are you Smith?” We never had addressed him as anything other, and he was fine with that. He was never a real father to us, so there was no reason to call him that; He was simply the man our mother lived with.

“Fine, fine,” He said dryly, eying us. “Yes, yes, fine, I suppose. You know.”   

Smith Svensson had been born in Gothenburg, Sweden, but moved with his family to Tulsa when he was a teenager. He went to school and became a divorce lawyer, and had moved to Norman in the rockin’ eighties to take a job with a downtown firm. He was Mom’s lawyer in their divorce. They were married not too long after the divorce was finalized. I was 11 and Becky was 9, but even that young we knew he was not our original father, nor did he have any desire to be. And in that careful cat’s cradle there was some balance: he did not love us and did not desire to be loved by us. Or at least that’s the way I saw it; Becky took a more emotional stance. Whatever the case, we never took his last name.

    

“Are you having problems paying your bills again?” Smith said, sidling up to Becky.

“No, no. It’s fine.” She said, eyes averted. She was terrified of him, for his forked tongue was also barbed. Oh, and the fact that he used to hit us when we were young, and Mother cried, but never stopped him.  

“Is your car paid off yet? How much do you still owe on it?”

“About a thousand dollars,” She stuttered. “Not much.”

“When I lent you that two-thousand dollars last Spring, you said you would pay me back after you paid off your car. That’s what you said. And I have been waiting, because I thought you would have it paid off by the Fall. But here it is Thanksgiving, and what?” He smiled. He had small square grey teeth. “So, when do you think you can get that paid off?” He looked at her like a particularly disgusting scientific specimen.

“Smith, come on. Leave her be,” I interrupted, trying to get the attention away from her, to save her. “Let’s not talk money.” I faked a laugh.

“Oh, no,” he chuckled, turning to me. “Heavens no, not money on the holiday. We can’t talk about that. No, no, it’s the food holiday. The day Americans give thanks for all of their great grand food. We can’t talk anything serious.” He winked at both of us and turned to walk off, but then turned back, “And you two look awfully thankful for all you have been given.”  He smiled his small square teeth smile and walked out of the room with a slight piggy snort.  

After a few seconds, when he was clearly out of earshot, Becky whispered, “Did you hear that?”

“Yup.” I answered with a roll of my eyes.  

“I knew it,” she said excitedly. “He did snort at me before. And now he just snorted at us. I can’t believe that.”  

‘Yup.” I looked at my watch and sighed. It was still early.

13. Turkey Day: Round 2

“I swear he snorted at us….” Becky said. I had followed her to the kitchen so she could tattle.

“Oh, pooh,” Mother said with a wave of her small pink hands. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it…”

Thad pushed by with a “pardon em moi” to shuffle a casserole into the oven.

“Now, Mother, I am not an idiot.” Becky continued, “I know a piggy snort when I hear one. He made one to me earlier and now he just did the same thing to both Mike and me.”

“He was probably just clearing his throat,” Mom said, putting green and black olives into a white hobnail dish that used to belong to her mother. “He’s been sick on and off for a while. He’s even lost more weight, poor thing.” 

“Really? Really Mother? He’s a ‘poor thing’? That’s ironic. I am just too old for him to continue to torture me about my weight.” Becky said aggressively, then to me, “Tell her.” She jabbed me in the ribs with a sharp finger.

Everyone in the kitchen turned to frown at me.

“Well, Michael?” Thad said with a small smile at the corners of his mouth, “Did he?”

Becky frowned at me so intently her eyes almost disappeared completely into her face.

Against my better judgment, as I knew it would be better to just let things go, I said, “Yes. It sounded like a snort.”

“A piggy noise?” Becky said, coming up to me, nodding her head in psychotic frantic agreement.  

“Yes, a piggy noise.” I said with a deflated sigh, now giving Becky the ammunition to sulk for the rest of the day.

“See!” She said, dancing around me, “I told you! I told you!”

Mother pursed her lips at me, “Michael you just encourage her.”

“Well, it is true,” I said. “He should keep his bone thin feelings to himself. We all didn’t have the advantage of being born to a line of emaciated Vikings who only eat krill and herring and snow, or whatever they eat up there.”

“You’re preaching to the choir!” Becky laughed, putting back another deviled egg.

 Mother and Smith had visited Sweden twice in the 90’s, and Mother’s only opinion of it was that it is was cold and the food was all too fishy. We had never been invited, which was fine. Even in all of my worldly academic travels, I had never set foot in the Land of the Midnight Sun, nor ever wanted to for fear it would be full of humorless men like Smith.   

“You two go set the table, while Thad and I finish up here.” Mother said, with a wave of her small hands.

“Fine fine” Becky said with a huff. “But I told you…”

Becky hummed a Christmas song as she set out the good china and I placed the water and wine glasses. We joked and pretended to lick all of Smith’s silverware. It was an odd dynamic, our family, as Becky and I were middle-aged yet we were still the children of the family, as neither of us had introduced children into the mix. Becky had wanted children, but Ray did not. A few months after they were married she had gotten pregnant “on accident,” but lost it and was crushed. We never brought that up. I had no desire for children; rearing Thad was enough of a challenge for me, plus he would probably just get jealous and lock the child in an oven or perpetrate some other fairy tale horror to them, so it was for the best that we were childless. But because of this, Becky and I still got to be the big kids we never outgrew, and it was just rather accepted.

   Becky went back to the kitchen and Thad came out a minute later, “That woman is working my last nerve.”

“Who?”

“Your mother!” he snapped. “She keeps laying things down and then accusing me of moving them. She is getting just senile.” I could tell by his body language that he needed a cigarette.

“Did you bring them?” I asked.

“What?” he said coyly, eyes darting.

“Your cigarettes?”

“Yeah,” He shrugged. “They’re in my coat.”

“Just go out behind the garage. I won’t say anything:” When we had both quit smoking last year, Mother had been so proud of us that she had made us a cake. I had not told her that he had recently started back up as it would embarrassed him. He appreciated that.

“God, I love you!” he said looking me in the eyes and squeezing my hand. “I’ll be right back. Tell Betty Off Her Crocker in there that I’m in the bathroom if she asks.”

“Will do.”

He looked around to make sure no one was around and then leaned over and kissed me on the lips and said, “I’ll be right back.”

I smiled as he ran out of the room, and continued to set out the glasses, humming the Christmas song Becky had gotten stuck in my head.

A few minutes later Smith walked in. “Why is Thaddeus outside the garage?”

“What?” I feigned. “Is he?”

“Yes, I saw him from my upstairs Den window. He appeared to be smoking. I thought you two stopped that awful habit.”

With teeth clenched, I leaned into Smith, “Yes, but Thad started back up. It’s just his nerves…don’t say anything to Mom, okay?”

“His nerves?” Smith laughed. He had a high-pitched Nordic laugh that made little noise, but came with exaggerated actions like hand waving and belly touching. I hated it.  

“Yes, he’s a very nervous person. It calms him.” I said in a more aggressive tone, hoping he would back down. 

“Nervous about what?” Smith laughed again, “He doesn’t work. Has he ever worked? He just sits around your house and watches television. What does he have to be nervous about?”   

I could not think of anything to say, and I so wanted to backhand him right then and there, as he was right, and I felt the same way. But I was not allowed to feel that way, as I had to be on Thad’s side. And even though Thad did not have a lot to be nervous about in my book, he was a nervous sort nonetheless and I had to respect that. But to have to defend that to someone like Smith was an impossibility. So I just looked away, ashamed of Thad, which made me ashamed of me. 

“But you are not smoking again are you?” Smith continued.

“No.”

“Good,” he said, rapping his knuckles against the table. “At least hopefully we can keep the cancer out of the family. I’ll be upstairs. Call me when the meal is ready.”  He smiled a tight smile and left the room.

The light in the room moved slowly overhead as everything seemed to stop in time. Smith’s words jumbled in my head, toppling one over another as I tried to make sense out of his sounds. He had said ‘…cancer out of the family.’ He was saying that he was glad I was not smoking so I would not get cancer…but that Thad might, as he smoked…but that would be okay, as Thad was not part of the family. Not part of the family. Did he really just say that?

As the door shut behind Smith I realized his implication. Smith was saying if Thad died, it would be okay because he was not really a member of the family. But Smith did not say it outright, or did he? Did I just imagine it? I ran his words though my head again in the other direction, and wondered if it was his weird accent or if I had heard him right.
I decided he had said it was fine for Thad to die from cancer because he was not a member of the family. Yes. He had said it. Smith had. Smith had actually said that to me, to my face, about my boyfriend, who had been part of my life for over twenty years now, and a part of this family for more than two years. Smith had said it.    

Time began again as the blood flooded my face and I felt simultaneously weak with pain and empowered with rage. The thick beating of my heart jarred me back into reality. How dare he? How dare he? How could Smith be so pointedly hateful? I wanted to kill him with my hands, and I could do it, here, on the table, right on the Thanksgiving table.

But no, I could not. I could not confront him, not here, and not now. And that’s why he said it. Smith knew I could not fight back. It was Thanksgiving. I had to be good or I would be labeled "the one who ruined Thanksgiving.” So I had to stay mum. And I could not tell Thad, as he would verbally thrash Smith right then and there, and that would make it all the worse, as then Thad would be "the one who ruined Thanksgiving.” And Smith knew that too, and that’s why he said what he did. Smith humiliated me and left me in a position where I was helpless. I was helpless.     

  Someone came into the room behind me. They were humming, moving things around on the table. They said something to me that I did not hear. Then they touched my arm.

“What?” I jumped from my trance.  

“What’s going on?” Becky said, “You look so upset.”

Against my better judgment I told her what had just happened.

“You are shitting me!” she gasped. ‘That’s so horrible!” She grabbed me to give me a tight body hug. “I’m so sorry. He’s such a monster!”

I hugged back. “Thank you, honey. So, it’s not my imagination? I didn’t misinterpret? You think that’s really what he meant? That he doesn’t consider Thad a part of the family? And doesn’t care if he dies of cancer?”

“Yes!” She gasped, looking up at me, “Oh my God, what a coldhearted bastard. He used to treat Ray that way sometimes, but never to his face. It’s just Smith’s oh so charming way. But, Jesus!”

I heard Thad laugh from the kitchen.

Pulling away I said, “But, oh my God, don’t say anything to Thad. He would eviscerate Smith.” 

“Oh, I would pay good money to see that!” she laughed.

“You can’t say anything, okay?” I snapped. “That would be disastrous. We just need to get this meal over with, and get the Hell out of here. Watching Smith and Thad go at each other like Titians would not help a thing.”

“But it would be so neato….” She trailed off.

“I just wish I had defended Thad.” I took her hand. “I mean Smith just said it, and I didn’t understand at first, I mean I just didn’t get what he said, and then he walked out. I didn’t get a chance to defend Thad…I didn’t even get the chance…” And then I teared-up.

“Oh, don’t cry, you’ll get all puffy…” Becky reached up to wipe my eyes. “It’s okay. Just ignore him. Let it go…”

“You’re right! You’re right!” I said, pulling away to pace back and forth, waving my hands frantically. “I just need to let it go. Let it go…let it go…”

“Let what go?” Thad said walking into the room carrying a plate of cornbread, a frowningly inquisitive look on his face.  

Mother followed to announce happily, “Well, you kids get ready, it looks like we’re about to eat.”

14. Turkey Day: TKO'ed

Ten minutes into the meal, I had still yet to speak, and it was becoming obvious. I was so freaked out that I was afraid if I spoke, I would cry. Before we sat down I had convinced Thad that everything was fine, and Becky had so far kept her mouth shut, but the air was pregnant with tension. Turkey, potatoes, gravy and all the fixings stood on the table like toy soldiers heading to war.  

“And so my cousin Maryann, that’s your second cousin, said to me…” Mother continued a longwinded story about relations we could not pick out of a line up, yet we all pretended to listen. She sat at the end of the table, with Smith at the opposite head, and Thad and Becky across from me.

Thad clicked his glass until I looked up. He mouthed, “What’s up?”

Having trouble maintaining eye contact I mouthed, “Nothing,” and forced a shrug.

From the other side of Thad, Becky then mouthed, “You okay?”

And after making sure Thad was not looking, I nodded “No,” and she made a sympathetic frowny face.

“So then Maryann said me to, ‘The coat was your mother’s, but I wanted you to have it.’ And I was just thrilled, as it was a nice old coat with a fur collar that I remember Momma wearing it to church on Sundays…” Mother continued to no one in particular.

“Becky,” Smith interrupted, causing her to jump. “You never answered me earlier when I asked you about the loan I offered you.” 

“What?” She squeaked.

“When I asked you when you could pay me back the money.” He wiped his knife on the side of his plate and it made a slow screech as the metal slid across the china.

I looked down at Mother, who apparently had taken advantage of losing the floor to investigate the pile of stuffing in front of her. Thad chewed and frowned at me. I knew he knew something was up.

“Well, it’ll probably be next summer…” Becky began, her voice wavering. “Our rent is going up January 1^st, so I have to make allowances for that. But I think I can have it paid off by next summer, so then I can start to pay you off…”

“‘Our’ rent? Don’t you mean ‘your’ rent?” Smith said matter-of-factly.

Becky looked like she had been shot through the chest, mouth open like a gash, eyes wide. Smith had gone where we were not supposed to go: Becky’s separation from Ray. She just looked down, silent, and I so felt for her.  

But I had no idea what to do. Do I let him get away with that too, or do I become "the one who ruined Thanksgiving," as Mother would put it for the next twelve months? I was just too weak. I could not do anything, I could not defend my boyfriend and now I could not defend my baby sister, and for that I was deeply ashamed of myself. 

“You should just keep all that to yourself,” Thad said with a mouthful of food, just as brazen as the day he was born.

“What did you say?”  Smith said like a Bond villain, turning to Thad.
“I said,” Thad repeated loudly, not a touch of fear in his voice, “’You should keep all that to yourself.’ This is Thanksgiving. We’re supposed to be giving thanks here.” He chuckled to himself. “And before you go talking about money and bringing up things you shouldn’t, and making piggy snorting noises at people, you should look at yourself sometime. I’m sorry you’ve been sick, but how much weight have you lost? I mean, you look like the Holocaust.”

The table was dead silent, for exactly two seconds until I burst out laughing, a grand guffaw that spit food all the way across the room. And then Becky joined in with me in her high pitched ‘woo hoo’ that sounded a joyous explosion of pent-up happiness and glee. And then Mom even laughed in her good church going ‘tee-hee,’ her tiny hands covering up her pink mouth. And Thad looked as proud as he should have been, taking another giant bite of yams through a huge conquering smile.   

And Smith just sat at the end of the table looking stupid as we laughed at him, no quick repartee, no sling-gun comeback; he just sat there and looked dumb. And it was the most joyous feeling ever. We laughed until we cried, and Smith never flinched, never batted an eye, which made us laugh even more.
It is a joy to see the cruel fail.

And when I finally caught my breath, I inhaled a long pure stream of good air and smiled at Thad as widely as I could and mouthed, “I love you.”

He made kissy lips at me and gave a saucy wink.

I reached for the cranberry sauce, as I felt all of my hatred and anger pass away. “This is really good sauce, Mom. Where did you get the recipe?”

“Well,” Mother began. “I got it from your Great Aunt Imogene, Maryann’s mother, the one I was talking about. Imogene was an old schoolmarm, and she used to make it and bring it to Momma’s, and we just loved it as kids. Isn’t it good? I just love it with the pecans and that bit of orange…”

For the rest of the meal we all laughed and talked and caught-up, and Smith did not say one more god-damn word, and for that we were all thankful.