TIME TO GIVE THANKS

A Novellette in Three Parts

Part One - Preparations

Cheryl, with the critical eye of a still-life photographer, circled the dining room, taking in every detail. She noted with satisfaction how the white damask tablecloth fell in the graceful folds of a priest’s chasuble. A subtle nod to the investiture of America’s first Pope. And in keeping with the same theme, her procession of little pumpkins, their sizes, shapes and colors varied, were arfully arranged to look as if they’d tumbled out of a basket or been blown in by the wind while the tall, thin, off-white candles flanked them on either side; jubilant altar boys supervised by austere acolytes. Ringing the centerpiece, were the silver-rimmed plates she’d received as a wedding present fifteen years earlier but had never before used because they were too good. Napkins folded in the shape of Bishop’s mitres and a place-card denoting who was to sit where adorned each plate. A retinue of cutlery, removed from their blue velvet box and polished to a gleaming silver, stood at attention, each according to the course it was meant to serve. Even the chairs were dressed for the occasion. Their plain wooden frames and upholstered seats hid beneath red banquet style chair covers that had been purchased on-line specifically for this dinner. As for the sideboard, it had been cleared of the books and papers that it normally accumulated, so that it could be polished and decorated with pine cones strategically placed to leave room for the pumpkin pie and the dessert dishes. The overall effect was stunning and Cheryl congratulated herself.

This Thanksgiving was going to be her triumph; her turn to shine. For years, Joe’s Grandmother insisted on hosting the annual feast. The other women were allowed to bring the minor sides; cranberry sauce, bread rolls, the peas, but she reserved the imporant dishes for herself; the turkey with its stuffing, the mashed potatoes with its gravy, the yams with its marshmallow topping and of course, the all important, pumpkin pie. Over the years the quality of the meal had declined but no one dared suggest they take over until the family matriarch was placed in a home. The feast fell to the next-in-line, She, however, was forced to abdicate when she filed for divorce and married the person everyone now referred to as ‘The Spaniard’. Once the title of Thanksgiving hostess was up for grabs, daughters Amanda and Grace and daughter-in-law Cheryl decided to rotate the event annually. The first three years following the divorce, referred to now as ‘The Incident’, had passed pleasantly enough, with only a friendly competitiveness emerging. Then Grace ramped up the stakes by introducing her Fireball Whiskey Pumpkin Pie instead of Grandma’s traditional recipe. That opened the door for other variations and with those changes came rivalry. Amanda, countered with a risky move by introducing her dry brined, slow smoked turkey with chestnut and oyster stuffing cooked separately. Cheryl quietly observed the competition, biding her time as she plotted her own bold departure from the family’s ritual. As sister-in-law, she was determined to outshine both of them. No unceremonious dumping of dishes on the table. Her feast would be served in courses, each one designed to be more lavish than its predecessor. And, of course, showcasing it all, was this opulent setting. Today, she assured herself, was going to be the best Thanksgiving ever.

Now that the dining room had passed inspection, she returned to the kitchen to attend to her last minute food preparations. She took the turkey’s temperature, not fully trusting the little red bulb. Perfect. She moved the sweet potato pie from the refrigerator to the counter, so it could come to room temperature, primed and ready for that last minute reheat. Again perfect. Moving on to the potatoes, slow cooking in the crock, she confirmed that they were set to achieve the perfect texture in time for serving. Satisfied that the last minute dishes were on schedule, she checked the pumpkin pie cooling near the open window. She scanned the surface for any hint of a crack but it had cooled to perfection and could now be relocated to the dining room. There it would be given pride of place on the sideboard so that its festive smell of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves, intermingled with the smell of roasting turkey, would create the appropriate olfactory stimulation.

While sights and smells were important Cheryl wanted something more, a grand production, an extravaganza, a feast that would be talked about for years to come. She’d dim the lights and wait until everyone was seated and then light the candles. Like slowly raising the curtain, her guests would see not merely a table setting but a stage upon which her feast would unfurl, like a well-crafted play. The opening act, an apple and escarole salad with blue cheese and hazelnuts, was already plated and waiting on the kitchen counter for its cue. The soup, a cold gazpacho would be brought to the table once Chrissy removed the salad plates. (This part of the script still required some negotiation on her part, as her daughter hadn’t actually bought into the spirit of Thanksgiving. But Cheryl was convinced that the elegance of the setting, along with the introductory dishes and the outpouring of familial love they evoked, would create a sense of warmth and well being that even her teenaged daughter Chrissy would succumb to). Then there would be the presentation of the turkey, perfectly browned, plump, succulent, and ready for carving. As bowls of side dishes circulated, her husband Joe would do the honours of carving it into mouth watering slices. She’d spent several Sundays encouraging him to practice on the roast chickens and had every confidence that he would not let her down. As the play unfurled in her mind she smiled, imagining the look of surprise that would appear on their faces when she revealed the surprise addition, the second pie. It was a warm, burnt sugar apple pie topped with home made ice cream made with real vanilla beans. Two desserts! No one would be expecting that. Then a gradual winding down of the evening with soft music in the front room, glasses of port for the adults, and hot chocolate for the children as everyone acknowledged that her Thanksgiving was undoubtedly, the best ever.

This pleasant reverie was shattered by the sound of the family car pulling into the drive. Last night her family had been roped into one activity or another but Cheryl wanted to control these final preparations on her own. Much as she loved her family, they were more likely to disrupt her schedule than be of assistance so Joe, her husband, who would have preferred to spend the morning sleeping-in or lounging in front of the TV, dutifully packed up the children and took them out. Christina, at thirteen, was getting a bit old for the annual Thanksgiving Day parade and had to be bribed with the promise of extra spending money for the Black Friday sales but six year old Josh still enjoyed it.

The front door burst open, bringing with it a blast of cold air that blew open the dining room door and knocked over several of the carefully folded napkins. Josh barreled into the room waving a plastic bag of candy corn and leaving a trail of muddy footprints.

“Mom! Mom! Look what I caught.

Cheryl grabbed him just in time to steer him away from the table where he was about to deposit his prize.

“I’ll take that,” she said whisking the candy out of his hand.

“But, it’s mine.”

“You can have it later.”

Yelling over her shoulder to close the door, she stuffed the candy into her apron pocket.

“Got it,” replied Joe, slamming the front door with his foot as he hung his coat on the rack. Appearing in the doorway of the formal dining room, he looked around the room and let out a whistle.

“That’s pretty impressive,” he said.

He gave Cheryl an obligatory kiss on the cheek while reaching for an olive from the appetiser plate. Cheryl slapped his hand and chastised him further with a disapproving look then turned her attention to resetting the napkins. Unscathed, he wandered around the table, checking place names until seeing Cheryl turn her back, retrieved the olive and popped it in his mouth.

He and Cheryl had been married for fifteen years and theirs was a comfortable relationship. She had settled into his family better than he had settled into hers. Partly that was due to logistics. His immediate family lived within minutes of each other while hers lived two states away. Just as fences made good neighbors, Joe felt distance from in-laws, increased the chances of a happy marriage. Cheryl was disappointed when they said the couldn’t make today’s dinner but Joe was relieved. They were a formal bunch, with rules about what did and did not constitute polite dinner conversation, what attire was required for formal occasions, and generally putting on a show. This dinner was a stark reminder of her roots but at least the guests would be more less formal.

He glanced at the place-card, on the plate in front of him. It had the name Christina written in elegant gold script.

Ah, he thought. Good plan.

His wife had seated their oldest child as far away from herself as possible. That was not too surprising. Lately, those two had been at each other’s throats but Joe wasn’t worried. He figured it was all part of growing up. Looking at the next plate, he noted with satisfaction, that his brother Andy had been positioned between Chrissy and Josh. That would no doubt delight the children. They adored their Uncle who rarely acted his own age. In fact, the three of them would have happily sat at the children’s table, except that this year, there wasn’t one. With his mother and The Spaniard banished from all social functions, his father declining all invitations to celebrate, and both Amanda and Grace announcing that they were coming on their own, numbers had been drastically reduced. Joe again, was relieved. He preferred small informal meals but worried that Cheryl would feel let down because this was her year to show off. But where some saw obstacles others saw opportunity. Cheryl, rather than feeling dismayed, unearthed the two extra leaves for the dining room table, pulled the extra chairs out of the basement and announced that this was going to be the best Thanksgiving ever because everyone would be seated together. Undoubtedly that meant he was destined to sit at the head of the table, a position that suggested an authority Joe felt ill-equiped to handle. Not that he felt inadequate as a husband or as a provider. It was the formality of it all; which fork to use, which glass was for water and which for wine, and most terrifying of all, carving the turkey. More than anything, he wanted this day to be perfect for Cheryl; a gesture he recognised was both selfish and self-serving. Happy wife. Happy life. That’s what his father said until the Incident. A chill ran down Joe’s spine. He had no concerns about a Spaniard ruining his comfortable life but he was concerned about his family ruining Cheryl’s big day. Alert to anything that might get in the way, he walked around to the other side of the table and looked at the seating arrangement for the rest of his family

Across from his daughter Chrissy, Cheryl had seated Granny. That was a given. Just as Thanksgiving couldn’t be moved from the last Thursday in November, his grandmother’s position to the right of the turkey carver, was non-negotiable. But that meant that Cheryl had seated his sisters, Grace and Amanda, next to each other. A potential disaster but also an opportunity for him to swoop in and save the day. Picking up Amanda’s name card with one hand and Grace’s with the other, he cleared his throat.

Cheryl, who was polishing a non-existent spot on one of the forks, looked up, “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t think you want these two next to each other this year,” he said, waving the two cards and lifting his eyebrows.

“Why not? What’s going on?” As she said this, she turned in time to smack Josh’s hand as it headed towards the pumpkin pie.

Intimidated by his wife’s ability to see both what was in front as well as behind her, Joe decided to by-pass the appetiser plate as he walked over to the sideboard. Handing the place-cards to his wife he grabbed Josh by the shoulders, turned him around and pointed him towards the door, saying, “Go hang your coat up and wash your hands.”

As soon as Josh was out of earshot, he explained. “Grace is dating Amanda’s ex.”

Cheryl looked up in horror. “He’s not coming, is he? I mean, I haven’t set a place for him and there’s no more chairs-“

“No, he’s not coming,” interrupted Joe, “but THEY’RE, not talking.”

“Oh,” Cheryl paused, looking at the cards as she took in the gravity of the situation. Joe held his breath. She turned her attention to the table. Eyeing it with the shrewdness of a commander planning a campaign, she tapped the cards against her hand.

“I’ve got it,” she said. “We’ll, have Grace exchange places with your brother.”

Joe smiled approvingly. It was a simple but elegant solution. While the kids would be disappointed, the crisis had been averted.

“The turkey smells great, by the way,” he added as Cheryl headed back into the kitchen and he reached for an olive. His self-congratulatory moment was, however, short lived.

Christina strolled into the dining room, took one look at the table and raising her voice, said, “Mom’s playing Martha Stewart again.” Then, snatching a bit of crust from the rim of the pumpkin pie, popped it in her mouth.

Joe gave his daughter a warning look which she responded to with a look of smug satisfaction as she calmly licked her fingers. Once again impending disaster loomed saved only by the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway. Joe flipped the pie plate around to hide the disfigured crust and with another silent admonition, side-stepped his daughter and headed for the front door. As he placed his hand on the door knob he glanced over at Josh who was in the front room studying the bowl of colorful hard candies with the same intensity as Cheryl had studied the table.

If only mother and daughter were as much alike as mother and son, he thought. But then again—

Outside the car engine switched off and Joe opened the front door. A blast of wintry air swept into the room, followed by Cheryl yelling out from the kitchen.

“Chrissy, shut the dining room door and Josh stay out of the candy bowl. I don’t want you spoiling your dinner.”

Christina looked on in sullen amusement as the carefully folded napkins toppled one by one until only one remained standing. Last night her mother had given her a set of instructions about what she was to wear, how she was to behave and most impoetant of all, she was told not to bring her phone to the table. If it had been up to her, they would have all gone out to dinner at a restaurant where everyone could choose their own meals and no one got stuck with the cleaning up. Wasn’t it bad enough that the house was off limits to normal everyday activities, but to make matters worse, she would have to endure the agony of sitting through an interminable series of dishes, none of which she wanted to eat, and listen to the stupid remarks about how beautiful everything looked and how delicious everything tasted. The one bright spot in the day was Uncle Andy. Somehow he had managed to survive becoming an adult without losing his sense of humor so he could be counted on to liven up an otherwise dismal day. Last year, he’d put a whoopee cushion on Grandma’s chair which made a farting noise as she sat down. Swiping an olive from the appetiser dish, she wondered what her Uncle was planning to bring this year and hoped that whatever it was, would upset her mother’s perfect meal. Taking the pit out of her mouth, she placed it back on the dish, knocked over the last napkin, then banged the door closed behind her and stomped up the stairs to her room.

To be continued....