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.