Family Fracas

         

“When a woman is trying to catch a man, name something she pretends to like.”

“Sports.” 

“Name a very stressful job.”

“Surgeon.”

“Name a gauge you may find on the dashboard of a car.”  

  

“Gas.” 

“Including insects, name an animal that frightens people.” 

“Spiders.”

“Name a pie you’d expect to be served on Thanksgiving.” 

“Pumpkin.”

***

The car went into a quick controlled skid as it turned into the driveway and parked on the snow-dusted concrete. The driver, Robert, snickered as the back end of the lime-green Prius wiggled to a stop. The passenger, his wife Erin, allowed her lips to hint at a smile.

          

They stepped out of the car in unison, measuring their steps as flakes fell lazily from the gray sky. The couple synced again as he and she pulled open a backdoor to pick up party favors—a crock pot filled with cheesy hash browns for him and one loaded with stuffing for her. They slammed the doors shut with thumps of their coat-padded hips and pivoted toward the front porch of the Powell household. With a crock pot cradled, he flung open the screen door and she caught it by planting her boot. He thumbed the door bell four times before turning the doorknob and entering. She didn’t come close to smiling at this.

          

“Happy Thanksgiving!” Robert announced.

          

Seated in a puffy brown La-Z-Boy, Randy Powell looked away from the television and squinted reprovingly at his son. In moments of scorn, his pale blue eyes could convey a feeling of frostbite. He let out a deep sigh, let the passion pass by, and rose to his feet—and this too prompted a deep sigh. 

“Robert,” he said. “And Happy Thanksgiving to your better half. Hello, Erin.”

“Hey, Randy. Happy Thanksgiving,” Erin smiled. 

Randy held out his hands to accept the slow cooker from Erin. Before turning for the kitchen, he squinted at his son again.

“Over-ringing a doorbell is never funny, Robert. Doing that, it’s funny under no circumstances. I mean, did I fail as a parent by not telling you that? Or did I tell you and you just failed to listen?” 

Erin spoke curtly so that her spouse wouldn’t have to.

        

“Questions for the sages, I guess.” 

She patted her father-in-law on his wiry shoulder and in a swift and clumsy move they shared the distinct hug of two people who don’t especially like to hug.

The three of them passed by the oblong front window in the living room and went into the kitchen, where Elizabeth fluttered from sizzling pots on the stove to the oven and back clutching a wooden spoon. She had awoken miserable yet resolute at 7:30 and began to prepare the meal after a big mug of coffee followed by a quick shower. Presently she waved away strands of auburn-gray hair from her wrinkled doll face with her non-spoon hand. 

“While you’re up, Randy,” she said, “Could you make me a Bloody Mary?”

He set the slow cooker on the counter and knew to head for the liquor cabinet at the mention of his name. 

“I got the expensive kind of ham and turkey at the Pick ‘n’ Save. You know, with the prize money,” Elizabeth said, beaming.

“You mean to tell me,” Robert deadpanned. “That you guys spent your entire cut of two-grand, not including lots of taxes, on meat for a single feast?”  

“No, most of that is in the bank. Waiting to be taken out once the next something-or-other breaks down. And your father and I are grateful.” 

Randy poured vodka into the glass. He measured and shrugged. 

“Something beats nothing.” 

“Sure,” Robert said. “But it stings. We could’ve had more something.”

 His wife bristled as she plugged in the crock pots. Elizabeth spoke up. 

 

“Oh, Robert, please. We got a trip to L.A. to be on a silly game show and we won some money. We should all be happy about that.”

“And yet...” 

“And yet I’m thirsty,” Randy said. “Anyone want a beer?”

“What kind you got?” his son asked. 

“Bud Light.”

 “Pass.”

 Randy’s face tinged with fleeting disgust. He turned and opened the fridge.

 “Ach,” he groaned. “Beer snob.”

Voices from the football game droned from the living room. Erin brushed past her husband to blankly look at the screen. Elizabeth took her first sip from her Bloody Mary, eyes darting low from the stovetop to the oven. Randy gripped a Bud Light and returned to his recliner. 

“So, uh,” Robert said. “Busy day. We can’t stay as long as we’d like. Erin’s parents are expecting us around two.” 

“Oh? Well, send them our best,” Elizabeth said.

Robert nodded, cleared his throat, opened his mouth as if to speak, shut it. Seconds ticked by. Finally Robert asked a question.     

“So, the gang’s all here?” 

“Almost,” Randy answered from the other room.

“… Oh,” Robert said. 

Sizzles sounded in the kitchen and the football game went to commercial. 

***

“When a woman is trying to catch a man, name something she pretends to like.”

“Uh, the Beatles.”

 “Name a very stressful job.”

 “Magician.”

 “Name a gauge you may find on the dashboard of a car.”

 “The... rearview mirror.” 

 “Including insects, name an animal that frightens people.” 

“Badgers.”

“Name a pie you’d expect to be served at Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Banana cream.”

***

The old Honda’s engine rumbled as a front tire dug into the curb. The car reversed and set a steadier course. Jason Powell shook his head, groaned and parked. “Eleanor Rigby” died on the stereo. He took a deep breath and glared from the light splats of snow against the windshield to the pie and case of beer stowed on the passenger’s seat.  

Jason cradled the food and drink and fumbled with the door latch. He stood outside the car and watched puffs of his breath. As he approached the front porch he slipped on a patch of ice. Falling forward, he managed to balance the pie in one hand as he cracked the twelve-pack of Miller High Life into the pavement to steady himself.

“Shit,” he said. 

He stood up. A glance through the living room window revealed the backs of two heads turned to the TV. He had at least blundered without an audience. He groped at the doorknob and entered the home. 

“There you are, Jason!” Erin cried.

A moment later she suspected she had overdone the welcome. She traced her hand through her black pixie hair and rubbed the back of her neck. 

“What?” Jason said, stomping snow off his boots. “Were you guys talking about me?” 

“I was just asking if you were gonna show up," Robert said.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Oh... Happy Thanksgiving. That’s why.”

Jason studied him, grew self-conscious and scratched his brown stubble. He smiled his bashful, sad smile.

“My bad. Just the wrong side of bed.” 

He wandered into the living room. His sister-in-law touched his hand as he brushed it on her shoulder and said Happy Thanksgiving. In the kitchen he accepted then shrugged off a vigorous hug from Elizabeth, the kind of hug a worried mom gives while her mind pleads, “Is there anybody in there?” 

Robert grinned thinly. He pointed to the beer in Jason’s grip. 

“You in a sharing mood?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Jason said. “You got it.” 

“We’re so glad you decided to join us,” Elizabeth said. 

Jason returned from the fridge and handed a beer to Robert. He set his down on the crowded countertop.

“Well, I had an opening in my schedule,” he said wryly. “The deli’s closed. No band practice... Wait!” 

He blurted the last word a moment too late as Robert cracked open his High Life. It frothed and geysered suds all over his dress shirt and khakis. 

“The fuck?!” Robert exclaimed. 

“Language,” his mother said.

Jason hurried to get a roll of paper towels. 

“It got shook up when I slipped out there,” he said. “I just forgot.”

“Well, you should’ve remembered,” Robert said. “Jesus, dude.”

Erin came back from the sink with a soaking washcloth. 

“It’s all right,” she said quietly.

Jason buried his face in his hands, thumbs massaging his sideburns. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

“I’m soaked,” Robert said. He took the washcloth from Erin. “Babe, we’ll have to drive back home before we go to your folks’. I can’t go like this.”

“OK,” she said. “We’ll drive back. We can be there a little late.” 

“No, I want to be on time. We should get out of here a little early.”

“Well, the food’s almost ready,” Elizabeth said. “If you need to speed things up.” 

Robert noticed an air of disappointment in his mother’s voice. He turned to his brother. 

“Dude, you were outside when you crash-landed... literally two minutes ago.”

“You don’t need to say ‘literally,’” Jason said. 

“What?” 

“Two minutes is two minutes. I never thought you meant that figuratively.” 

Robert’s cheeks grew ruddy, puffing like red balloons. He tasted something like venom on his tongue as his father approached. 

“You spilled beer all over yourself,” he said nonchalantly. 

“Yeah, dad...” Robert said, laughing through gritted teeth. “Jason dropped the beer outside.” 

“Funny!” Randy said. He slapped Jason on the back. “Now, follow me, Robert. I’ll get you a change of clothes.” 

“Dad, I don’t want to wear your clothes...”

“And I don’t want you looking like a boozehound for Thanksgiving dinner. Come on. Just a t-shirt and jeans. Temporary fix.” 

“Fine. But don’t take any pictures.” 

“Oh, Jesus,” Randy grumbled. They walked down the hallway to the master bedroom. 

Jason, his mother, and his sister-in-law stood motionless until Elizabeth gestured to the dining room table, draped in a decorative orange cloth, plates, silverware inside of carefully folded napkins. Dishes of mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn exuded warmth. 

“Please,” Elizabeth said. “Sit.” 

Jason and Erin sat down. In a quiet tone, she leaned toward him.

“It’ll pass. It always does. Are you OK?” 

“Yeah, no,” he squirmed. “Uh, well, some friends had a viewing party. To watch the episode. And I didn’t go. I couldn’t watch it.” 

“Then don’t. It’s in the past.”

“Yeah, but it was like... if it wasn’t the bottom it was close. People kept texting, ‘It’s cool, don’t worry, blah blah.’ But that somehow made it worse. All the attention, but—alone. I didn’t go to work the next day. Called in. They were pretty, uh, upset. So, I figured, if it starts getting in the way of work, again... maybe I should talk to somebody. Again.”

Elizabeth darted to the phone, an old receiver with a cord on the wall. 

“I can set up an appointment now,” she said, either forgetting the holiday or knowing it wouldn’t stop her. 

“Mom,” Jason said. “I’ll do it myself. Tomorrow morning.” 

With hesitance Elizabeth returned to the stovetop.

“Please do. It’s just... when you said those things on the plane ride home, you really worried us.”

 “Mom,” Jason said. “I said I was sorry about that.”

 “Oh, but that’s not the issue, Jason, don’t you see...” 

Randy’s voice boomed from down the hall. 

“Everybody ready for the big fashion show?”

He entered the dining room first, winked and thumbed back at his oldest son, clad in blue jeans a size or two too small and a t-shirt from Randy’s place of work, radio station Silky 97.7 FM in Oshkosh. 

“This is one cool cat who knows how to keep it casual, folks,” Randy went on. 

Robert shook his head, grinned, and motioned to Randy in his faded green Bart Starr jersey. 

“Hey. I’m no match for the station manager.” 

“That’s true.”

The oven beeped and the men sat down. 

“Elizabeth,” Randy said. “Thanks in advance for the fine meal we’re about to eat. Smells so good you might finally outdo yourself, but as I’ve told you, Thanksgiving 2002 is what really set the bar.”

“Dad, that was like 15 years ago,” Robert said. 

“Yeah,” Jason said. “When we were in middle school.” 

“And I didn’t even know you Powells existed,” Erin chimed in. 

Unfazed, Randy grinned and laid a napkin on his lap. 

“Just telling it like it is.”

 Robert gazed at the pie on the table. Inverted whip cream smeared the lid.

“What’s with the pie?”

“I brought it,” Jason said. “It’s banana cream.”

His brother groaned. “Dude. Why? Just, why?”

“I figured it’s a joke, right? All a joke. So, get it out into the open. Try to enjoy it.”

No one had anything to add. Randy got up to slice the freshly cooked ham and turkey on the counter with an electric knife, a wedding gift from decades ago. 

“And you know,” Jason continued. “Who doesn’t like banana cream pie?” 

“I don’t,” Randy offered. He pointed to Elizabeth. “And she doesn’t.”

“Randy!” his wife scolded. 

“Actually, I’m not a big fan either,” Robert said.

“Two-for-five,” Randy shrugged, and with sincerity, he added, “But hey, you go two-for-five in a ballgame, you’re a .400 hitter. That makes you an All Star.”

“Two-for-five,” Robert scoffed. “Well, I wish banana cream fared that well on the Feud survey.”

The carver whined as it cut through meat. No one spoke. Elizabeth cleared her throat.

 “It was a very silly, um, winning experience we had in Los Angeles,” she said. “And stressful. But that part is over with, right?”

“Well, sure, but...” Robert began, ignoring his wife’s glare. “Even if we would’ve lost as returning champs, that’s still more money we left behind. And I know Jason’s a good Feud player. And he could’ve easily, you know, redeemed himself.”

Jason took a swig of High Life. He didn’t turn to his brother as he spoke.

“I didn’t want to be on that show again, Bert.”

He glanced to see his once brother wince at being called ‘Bert.’ The unsmiling Powell parents served the dishes to the table and took their seats. 

“Enough, please,” Elizabeth said. “It’s nothing to dwell on. I’ll say grace.”

Aside from Elizabeth, they were all lapsed Catholics, and so the others bowed their heads politely but did not experience a oneness with the Holy Spirit as Elizabeth recited the Lord’s Prayer. Something ill festered inside the boys as they waited for the prayer to end. 

“Amen,” they said. 

The five of them set about loading food onto their plates. They murmured impersonally, chewed and drank. Out of boredom, Randy’s eyes lit up.  

“Yeah, the game show thing could’ve been worse,” he said, chewing his mashed potatoes. “I mean, Steve Harley did shake my hand.”

“Steve Harvey, dad,” Robert said. 

“Whatever. Look, the man’s obviously very full of himself—but his handshake? OK, OK. That was the real deal. And now I know that. From experience.”

“Yeah, another thing about Steve Harvey,” Robert said. “It sure seemed like he was checking out Erin.”

“Well, who wouldn’t?” Jason said. 

Erin flushed and shook her head slowly, lips upturned. Robert peered at his brother, who was now staring at his mostly full plate with little appetite. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” Robert said. “Come on, what are you hungry for? Top six answers on the table.” 

Jason let out a laugh with no mirth in it. 

“Robert...” Erin said.

“What? Just getting the joke out in the open. Right? Jace, how about this one: name a hot, brown liquid that can be poured on mashed potatoes. Any idea what the survey say would say on that one, Jace?” 

“The survey says you’re an asshole,” Jason said.

Jason let his fork and knife thump against the tablecloth. His breaths hastened, and his hands began to fidget with the rage of an animal. He felt as though his pride was being cornered and there was no other recourse. He gulped, thought vaguely about what he was about to say his brother. 

“Do you want to fight? Outside, I mean.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” Robert said. 

“I’m serious. We keep butting heads. To hell with it. Let’s take some swings at each other, let’s fucking finish it that way.” 

As he stood up and stalked to his coat by the front door, the women recognized the severity of the scene and became aghast. Randy let out a grave sigh and set his fork and knife down. Robert rose to his feet with a scornful laugh. 

“Jason, no, there is absolutely no reason why I should go outside and kick your ass.” 

“Who said anything about you kicking my ass?” Jason said by the closet. “You know I’m going to get the first punch.”

His hand strangled the door knob. Jason called back, seething.

“And I think you meant to say there’s literally no reason why you should go outside to kick my ass. Like, literally.”

He mimicked that last word in the tone of a haughty fool and slammed the door behind him. 

“Oh, you punk,” Robert sneered. He stomped after his brother and stopped at the outcry behind him. He said over his shoulder, “I’m not going to hit him. I’m going to stop him from making a fool of himself in front of the whole neighborhood.” 

He snatched his coat and he was out the door. Elizabeth and Erin scrambled after him. Randy got up and raised his voice. 

“No. Look, I know it’s bad, but just watch. Trust me.” He added, “Please.”

The women with stared through the rectangular glass with cold scrutiny, coats on. Randy joined them, sipping his Bud Light.” 

The snow had let up when Jason found a spot in the middle of the green-and-white lawn, where he took what he deemed to be his stand. His knuckles flared. Seconds later the front door flew open and his brother charged out. Robert stopped a little more than an arms-length away. 

“Look, you fucked up,” Robert said. “You choked, had a meltdown. But we’ve all fucked up, OK? So, let it go.” 

“Hypocrite,” Jason said. “You just said we should have done a second show as returning champs. Like that’s some big regret for you. And all because of the money. Well, why don’t you fucking let it go?”

Robert took a step back. He smeared his hand against his face, took short, quick paces side-to-side, flustered and mad. From across the street he caught a glimpse of a neighbor peering out at them through a window. 

“I just wanted to win. And I was a damn good Family Feud player. Especially the Fast Money Round. Because that’s when it matters most. If you win Fast Money, it’s a jump in cash rewards from a total of eighteen-hundred dollars after taxes to like seventeen-thousand after taxes. And my answers in Fast Money got 170 points, OK? Out of 200—between two players. And then you choked. You gave some extremely shitty answers, Jason. So, being a competitor in this life, does that make me an asshole?”

“No, you’re an asshole because you care more about money than people.” 

Robert scowled at his brother and balled a fist. Jason saw his angry twitches and his muscles tensed. 

In the living room, Randy crossed his arms, watching, as they all were. 

“It’s getting ugly, yeah,” he noted. “But actual fisticuffs? It’ll never happen. Don’t worry.” 

“Randy, they boys are fighting mad at each other, Jason is depressed and irrational, and Robert is acting like a...” 

“Prick,” Erin offered. 

Elizabeth nodded. So did Randy. 

“True. But they’re not going to fight like fistfight,” Randy said.

“How do you know that?” his wife asked.

“Well, it’s because—and I’m not saying I don’t love them, I would never say that—but it’s because they’re both pussies.” 

“Randy!” Elizabeth snapped. “How can you say that?!”

“No, it’s fine,” Randy said. “I think that overall they’re both above-average human beings. So, good for them, and I don’t not love them. But they’ve never really been able to stomach violence, you know, if you look at their track record, and I suppose that’s a pretty good thing. They stay out of worse trouble that way. By kind of—being pussies.”  

Erin giggled, in a miserable kind of way. Elizabeth almost scolded her but seconds later she forced herself a quick smile. She did not like jokes as much as her husband but they both liked morsels of truth.  

On the lawn the young Powells were on the cusp of unleashing forces they had always kept inside. Genetic funhouse mirrors of each other, matching blue eyes and cleft chins, right elbows cocked back, balled fists twitching, readied, full of spite and afraid. They could hold no secrets from each other throughout this insufferable stare, and so their fists lunged forward. But they both struck a threshold, an invisible boundary, short of full extension, and their fingers unfurled into open palms that hesitated and shook, lowered a tick and drove forward. They exchanged shoves to the shoulder in the same instant—and that was all.  

After the halfhearted shoves, Robert escorted Jason and they sat on the front steps.

“See?” Randy said as he turned away from the window. “Happy ending. I told you they were pussies.” 

The boys shivered as they sat on the top step, suddenly clutching themselves, not rushing what they wanted to say. 

“I always thought it was all building up to something more than what it was,” Jason said. “Life, I mean. And it was. And then I got my moment, and I screwed it up. Because of a panic attack, or being just dumb, or whatever it was. But I screwed up my moment. The moment that I botched is gone.”

His older brother thought for a second.

“No. Respectfully, no. There are more moments than just one. And maybe they’re all the same size. Who we are is just about the time we have together, and there might be a lot of it. There’s more to it than just one big moment. And I know it sucks, but anybody can redeem a shitty moment.”

Jason turned away, nodding and not convinced. Robert sat pensively in the early winter gloom. After a while he smiled meekly and spoke up.  

“What was the name of the kindergarten teacher we both had, that I ruined for you because I was a psycho at the age of five?”

Jason paused, shook his head. His eyes flickered as the answer came to him. 

“Mrs. Sabel.”

“What did we agree to name the dog that dad never let us have?”

“Gary.” 

“A dog named Gary! Yes. Perfect name for a dog. Wasn’t meant to be. Now, discovered the summer before I went off to college, what do we agree is the most underrated video game of all time?”

“Oh,” Jason said. “WWF No Mercy for the Nintendo 64.”

“Also correct for a ton of points. By a minor miracle, when we both did that career forecaster program in middle school, which job was predicted for both of us?”

“Cartographer.”

“And when I got you drunk for the first time, what song did we keep singing when they almost kicked us out of the Taco Bell?”

“I believe it was ‘Living La Vida Loca,’” Jason said, and he laughed.  

“There you go!” Robert exclaimed. He smothered Jason with a sloppy hug. The older brother stood up, gazed down. “See? Just moments, all moments. Good stuff.”

He turned the knob to enter. Jason stood behind him. Inside the house, the spectators ceased their talk of the incident. Robert squinted at his father as the old man dug his hands into his pockets.  

“I have a question,” Robert said, recomposing himself. “Were you guys just talking about us?”

Elizabeth straightened up and nodded effusively. 

“Your father just said,” she said, choking back tears. “That seeing the sons he loves so dearly make up with each other, forgive and continue to love each other, has him convinced that this is the most fantastic Thanksgiving dinner this family has ever had. Even better, he stressed, than Thanksgiving 2002.”

Randy smiled ruefully but did not let it linger as the boys turned to him. He looked them both in the eyes. All three sets of eyes glimmered in a chagrined way. Randy nodded, not looking away.  

Erin stood back. Her hand pressed against her heart. She couldn’t contain her joy. She was clapping and laughing as she cried out. 

“Good answer!”