“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.”
“Name an insect that frightens people.”
“Spiders.”
“Name a pie you’d expect to be served on Thanksgiving.”
“Pumpkin.”
“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’d say.”
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.
Randy set the slow cooker on the counter and headed for the liquor cabinet.
Randy poured vodka into the glass. He measured and shrugged.
“Something sure beats nothing.”
“Sure,” Robert said. “But you know, 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 Los Angeles 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.”
“Ugh,” he said. “The 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.
“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.”
“Name an insect that frightens people.”
“Bugs?”
“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 cans 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 a vigorous hug from Elizabeth before shrugging it off. It was a mom hug that seemed to plead, “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 really glad you decided to join us,” Elizabeth said.
Jason returned from the fridge and handed a beer to Robert. He set his beer 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 out 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.
“What the fuck?!” Robert exclaimed.
“Language,” his mother said.
Jason hurried to get a roll of paper towels.
“It got shaken up when I slipped out there,” he said. “I forgot to warn you.”
“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.”
“Fine,” 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.”
“OK, you don’t need to say ‘literally,’” Jason said.
“What?”
“Two minutes is two minutes. Nobody thought you meant that in a figurative way.”
Robert’s cheeks grew ruddy, puffing like red balloons. He tasted something like venom on his tongue as his father approached.
“Hey, 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 smelling like a boozehound at 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. They watched the episode. I didn’t go. I couldn’t watch it.”
“You don’t have to watch it if you don’t want to watch it. It’s in the past.”
“Yeah, but it was like... that was a real shit show. It’s not over yet... People kept texting, ‘It’s cool, don’t worry--blah blah blah.’ And 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 telephone, a landline receiver that had been fixed to the wall for decades.
“I can set up an appointment now,” she said, either forgetting the holiday or knowing it wouldn’t stop her. The number of a psychiatrist Jason had seen on-and-off was on a Post-It note by the phone.
“Mom,” Jason said. “I’ll do it myself. Tomorrow morning. Or Monday, whatever.”
With hesitance Elizabeth returned to the stovetop.
“Please do. It’s just... when you said those things on the plane ride home, you got us worried.”
“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 96.7 FM in Oshkosh.
“Folks, this is one cool cat who knows how to keep it casual,” 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.”
“Before I even knew this family existed,” Erin chimed in.
Unfazed, Randy laid a napkin on his lap.
“I’m just telling it like it is.”
Robert gazed at the pie on the table. Inverted whip cream smeared the lid in a white mess.
“What’s with the pie?”
“I brought it,” Jason said. “It’s banana cream.”
His brother shuddered. “Dude. Why? Just, why?”
“I figured it’s a joke, right? It’s all a big 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?”
“Well, 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.
“I like it,” Erin said.
“Two-for-five,” Randy shrugged. With sincerity, he added, “But hey, you go two-for-five in a ballgame, you’re a .400 hitter. And that makes you an All Star.”
“Two-for-five,” Robert scoffed. “Well, I wish banana cream was an All-Star on the Final Feud survey.”
The carver whined as it cut through meat. No one spoke. Elizabeth cleared her throat.
“It was a very silly, um, money-making 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 that Jason’s usually 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 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 compliantly but did not experience a oneness with the Holy Spirit as Elizabeth recited the Lord’s Prayer. Something sinister 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 absently, chewed and drank. Out of boredom, Randy’s eyes lit up.
“Yeah, that 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 corrected.
“Whatever. Look, I know the man’s very full of himself—but his handshake? OK, OK... That was the real deal. Strong.”
“I didn’t like how Mr. Harvey kept rolling his eyes and teasing Jason, when Jason gave those answers at the end,” Elizabeth said.
Jason slumped in his chair. He smeared both hands up and down his face. No one seemed to notice.
“Yeah, another thing about Steve Harvey,” Robert said. “It felt 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 staring at his full plate with no 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 might have to 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 to his brother.
“Do you want to fight?” Jason asked. “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 this thing that way.”
As he stood up and stalked to his coat by the front door, the women saw the severity of the scene, 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 have to go outside in the cold to kick your ass.”
“Who said anything about you kicking my ass?” Jason said. “You don’t want this. You know I’m going to land the first punch.”
Jason’s hand strangled the door knob. He 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--just so literally.”
He mimicked that adverb in a mocking tone 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 went 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 stared through the rectangular glass with cold scrutiny with their coats on. Randy joined them, not bothering to put on a coat, 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 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.”
“You... 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?”“I have a question,” Robert said, lifting his chin. “Were you guys just talking about us?”
Elizabeth straightened up and nodded effusively.
“Yes,” she said, choking back tears. “Your father just said that he loves you both dearly. And seeing you boys work through your problems and forgive each other has convinced him--this is the most wonderful Thanksgiving dinner our family has ever had. Even better, he stressed, than Thanksgiving 2002.”
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