“Hi!” Annie said brightly, grinning at him as she put the foil back on the turkey she was checking. “We’re getting there. I hope you’re hungry. We have a twenty-pounder.”
“I’ll do my part when the time comes.”
“Good. You can mash the potatoes. I’m hoping Uncle George will carve the turkey. Grandma said she’d do the gravy. We’ve got green peas and mushrooms, cranberry sauce, black olives. Arba’s bringing candied yams and Aunt Jeanne is bringing pies—apple, mincemeat, and pumpkin.”
“What about stuffing?”
“Of course, there’s stuffing. It’s in the turkey. Grandma’s recipe. Plain and simple—seasoned bread, celery, onions, and the giblets all ground together. Took us a good part of this morning, but it’ll be worth it.”
The doorbell rang, and Corban saw a flicker of tension in Annie’s face. “Why don’t you be the greeter?” she said. “I don’t want Grandma to have to get up and down every few minutes. She should be presiding over festivities in the living room.”
Leota was already at the door. “George, Jeanne. Come in! Come in!”
“Mama.” The woman leaned down to kiss Leota’s cheek. “How are you?”
“Fine, just fine. Come in, come in.” She turned, her eyes shining. “Corban, this is my son, George, and his wife, Jeanne. And my grandchildren, Marshall and Mitzi. This is Corban, a good friend of mine.” The children were staring at Barnaby, who was staring back, beak open and ready for attack.
Jeanne was the only one who seemed openly friendly. She smiled and greeted him warmly, while her husband stood silent and assessing. What did the guy think he was? A felon on parole? “I’d better get Barnaby out of here.” The children trooped after him, asking questions about the bird that Corban couldn’t answer. “You’ll have to ask Annie. All I know is he’s crazy and he bites.” When he returned to the living room, he saw Jeanne was still holding the box she had brought in. “Let me take that for you,” Corban said.
“Oh, I’ll take it. You men sit and get to know one another.” With that, Jeanne headed for the kitchen, the two children in her wake.
Corban turned to face the somber-faced George.
“My mother’s told me you’ve been a big help to her.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
“When it hasn’t been a royal pain in your backside,” Leota said, settling back into her recliner. The three of them spent the next fifteen minutes in small talk—highly pained small talk. Corban had never felt so uncomfortable. Leota made a valiant attempt to get a conversation going with her son, but good old George wasn’t cooperating.
“How is business going these days?”
“Fine.”
“Still expanding?”
“Trying to.”
“I suppose Marshall is still in soccer.”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“Jeanne handles the children’s schedules.”
“Don’t you attend his games?”
“When I can.” George shifted, glanced at Corban, then back at Leota. “Do you mind if I turn on the television, Mother? There’s a good football game starting.”
“If that’s what you want to do.”
How, Corban wondered, can the man miss the look of sadness in his mother’s eyes? Maybe his presence was the cause of George Reinhardt’s reticence? Maybe if he were out of the way, George would feel more free to talk.
“I’m going to go see if I can help Annie in the kitchen, Leota.” At least the women were talking.
“It’s so much brighter in here,” Jeanne was saying when he joined her and Annie. “And the flowers you painted are wonderful, Annie. I had no idea you were so talented!”
Annie blushed. “Grandma said to do whatever I liked, and I’ve been having the best time, Aunt Jeanne. She’ll sit in here, and we’ll visit while I paint. She says she enjoys watching me.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Jeanne said. “I’d like to watch. I’d love it if you’d do some of this in my house. I’d even pay you.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t ask you to pay me.”
“Nonsense. You’re a working artist, aren’t you? You have to eat.” She glanced out the window at the children playing. “You’ve been working in the garden, too, I see. Everything was so overgrown the last time I was here.”
“Corban’s been a big help.” Annie grinned at him. “And Susan and Sam and some of the neighbor children. We’ve had plenty of helping hands.”
“It used to be so beautiful.” Jeanne sighed. “The first time I came here, the lilacs were in bloom. It smelled like heaven standing out there. I’m glad you’re bringing it back.”
The doorbell rang again. Corban turned in the doorway, but George was already on his feet. Seeing who had arrived, Corban steeled himself for a long, miserable day. The Ice Queen, consort in tow. Corban met Eleanor Gaines’s cool look with a slight nod while her husband, Fred, greeted Leota with a kiss and a compliment. The regal Eleanor barely said hello to her mother before she sailed toward the kitchen. He stepped back out of her way so she wouldn’t ram him.
“Is everything going all right in here, Anne-Lynn? The turkey smells done.” She nodded toward her sister-in-law. “Jeanne. Nice to see you.”
Not much warmth between the sisters-in law, Corban thought, playing a fly on the wall.
“Everything’s fine, Mother. I just checked the turkey a few minutes ago,” Annie said, coming to her mother, who turned her face so Annie could kiss her cheek. Annie drew back slightly, eyes flickering. “I’m glad you were able to make it, Mom.”
“I don’t see any yams. Didn’t you make yams?”
“Arba is bringing them.”
“Who’s Arba?”
“Grandma’s next-door neighbor. She and the children will be over in a little while.”
Clearly, that was an announcement that didn’t please Annie’s mother.
“I think I’d better check on my children.” Jeanne headed for the back door. Corban was trapped between the living room and the kitchen.
“I thought this was to be a family gathering.”
Annie blushed, her eyes flickering to him. He decided to rescue himself.
“Leota took pity on a poor, starving college student,” he said ruefully.
“Oh, of course, I didn’t mean you,” Eleanor said.
Liar. He looked her straight in the eye. “That’s okay, Mrs. Gaines. I understand what you meant.”
Annie gave him a pained look.
Eleanor turned her back on him. “Anne-Lynn, I really think you should take another look at that turkey. . . .”
Corban thought about excusing himself and going into the bathroom. Maybe he could squeeze through the window and escape.
Somehow, Annie managed to get her mother back into the living room and sitting down. The television was blaring, and those talking had to raise their voices. Adding to the confusion, Arba arrived, bearing gifts of candied yams and a sweet-potato pie. “The children are coming through the back gate, Leota. I think they already met your grandchildren over the fence.”
“The back gate?” Eleanor’s perfectly shaped eyebrows arched. “For heaven’s sake, George, turn the television down.” When he did, Eleanor looked at her mother. “What gate?”
“The one that’s been there for years,” Leota said. “Sam fixed the hinges a couple of weekends ago when he came over to see Annie.”
“Sam?” Eleanor’s lips tightened.
“Sam Carter. He’s a very nice young man,” Leota said.
“He’s an ex-con, Mother.” She rose, heading for the kitchen again.
“Oh, dear,” Leota said softly. “Now, I’ve done it.”
Corban could hear Eleanor’s voice from the kitchen, not that she was speaking loudly. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. “I didn’t know you were seeing Sam Carter,” Eleanor was saying, “though I don’t know why I should be surprised by anything you do these days.”
“I’m not seeing him in
the way you mean, Mother.” Annie’s tone was calm and patient. “He’s just a friend.”
“Oh, of course. That’s the vernacular for sordid relationships these days, isn’t it?”
Fred rose, his face pale and tight. “Excuse me.” He headed for the kitchen. He spoke softly, but the regal Eleanor was having none of it.
“This is between me and my daughter, Fred. Please stay out of it.”
“Mother, please . . .”
“I knew this day would be a fiasco from the start. I just knew it! Didn’t I tell you?”
“Shut up, Nora.”
“What did you say to me?”
“You heard me, and so did everyone in the house. If the day turns into a disaster, it’ll be your fault. Now, come back and sit down!”
Corban looked at Leota and saw tears welling in her eyes. In a moment they would be spilling down her cheeks. He glanced at Arba and saw mixed pity and anger. George’s jaw was set, his eyes glued to the television set. Jeanne sat there, forcing a smile. The voices in the kitchen dropped lower, but they were just as angry, just as intense, just as intrusive. Corban rose. “I think I’ll go outside and have a breath of fresh air.” They wouldn’t miss him if he snuck away.
“Don’t even think about it,” Leota said, keen-eyed.
“What?”
“You know exactly what, Corban Solsek. You’re staying.”
George looked between them, frowning. When Corban looked back at him, a muscle jerked in George’s jawline and he looked at the television again. “Let him leave if he wants to, Mother.”
That was all it took to make up Corban’s mind. “I’m not going far, Leota. Only as far as the front porch.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He didn’t come back inside until dinner was announced. The turkey was cooked to perfection, not that Eleanor Gaines could admit it. She sat at the dining room table, back rigid, face pale, lips tight, eyes down while Jeanne, Arba, Annie, and Leota talked.
“Let’s have the blessing, shall we?” Leota said, having been seated in the place of honor at the head of the table. Annie’s eyes were shining again, and she held out her hands—one to her grandmother, one to her mother. Everyone joined hands, some less eagerly than others. Corban felt uncomfortable and embarrassed, but that didn’t stop Arba from grasping his hand and giving him an encouraging smile.
“This is a day of Your making, Lord, for my family is under one roof again after so many years. Thank You, Jesus.” Leota’s voice was husky. She hesitated, then spoke again. “Open our minds, Father, and open our hearts as well. Come, join us at the table. In the name of Your precious Son, Jesus, we pray. Amen.”
Platters of food were passed.
“There are no chestnuts in the stuffing.” Eleanor glanced at Annie after a taste. “Did you put oysters in it?”
“Not this time.”
“This is the best stuffing I’ve ever tasted,” Jeanne said with enthusiasm. “Everything is wonderful, Annie.”
Eleanor glanced at Jeanne, her mouth tight, and went back to eating in silence. The tension kept everyone cautious.
The children were laughing in the kitchen. “What’re they doing in there?” Eleanor was clearly annoyed.
“Having fun,” Fred said tersely.
Corban thought about his own family. He could remember the tension on Thanksgiving Day, his mother slaving away in the kitchen while his father worked in the den. Thanksgiving had been nothing more than a day when vendors and customers didn’t call the office. It gave his father a day of rest from the telephone, but not from his obsession. Even when he had made it big, he couldn’t rest in his success. He was driven by the memory of a childhood of deprivation, driven to overcome the stigma of having grown up on the “wrong side of the tracks,” driven by his own feelings of inadequacy.
Corban’s parents had lived in a big house in an exclusive neighborhood with a guard at the gates, but that hadn’t changed his father. The man had always been driven before a strong wind. Then one day he was gone, blown away by a massive heart attack. He died at his desk. His mother grieved for a few years, then remarried. She was making new traditions now. Thanksgiving in Paris. Christmas in Geneva.
Someone else always cooked.
A cold thought suddenly went through his mind, unbidden, making his chest tighten. Am I like my father? Driven to prove myself? For what? And for whom? What am I doing? Where am I going?
“Good dinner, Annie,” George said, rising. He left his plate on the table and didn’t bother pushing in his chair.
“George,” Jeanne said, clearly annoyed.
“I’m just going to check the score.” He turned the television on and made himself comfortable on the sofa.
“Where’s a blackout when you need one?” Jeanne’s mouth was tight.
“We had blackouts all the time back during the war years,” Leota said. “The siren would go off and we’d pull down all the shades and turn out the lights. Frightened the children half to death sometimes. Melba was our block captain. She lived two doors down. She’d go out and walk up and down the street and make sure there were no lights on. Your grandmother—”
“No one ever bombed us,” Eleanor said impatiently.
“Not if you don’t count Pearl Harbor, dear.”
Eleanor’s face reddened. “Pearl Harbor is an ocean away, Mother. And the war’s been over for decades.”
Corban wanted to lean over the table and slap her. Where did she get off talking to Leota in that nasty tone? Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself he wasn’t part of this family, and it wasn’t his business.
Annie glanced at her grandmother. “I’d like to hear about the war years.”
“Why?” Eleanor said sharply. “We were dirt-poor. Mother was never home. And Grandma and Grandpa Reinhardt were always bickering.”
“They were?” Leota frowned.
“Usually over you. And money. Or rather the lack of it. We were a strain on their budget, in case it never occurred to you. Three extra mouths to feed. Grandma Helene was not pleased to be left with the responsibility of two children, and she made no secret of it to either of us.”
“Mother!” Annie’s face was white.
“Let it go,” Leota said, putting a hand over Annie’s. Leota didn’t say much about anything after that. She sat quietly, picking at her Thanksgiving dinner while Annie and Jeanne tried to move the conversation through safer channels. No matter where they went, though, they found themselves in a minefield of Eleanor’s making. As soon as Eleanor finished eating, she began stacking dishes. The clattering of porcelain and silverware seemed to announce the meal was over, whether they were finished or not. “I’ll clean up,” Eleanor said and pushed her chair back.
Annie’s eyes welled with tears.
“I’ll help you,” Arba said, starting to rise.
“No, thank you. I’ll take care of it myself.”
Arba hovered halfway out of her seat until Leota smiled at her. “Stay put, dear. It’s nothing personal. Eleanor just likes to do things her way.”
Fred looked down the table. “I’m sorry, Leota. Annie . . .”
“It’s not your fault, Fred,” Annie said quietly and bowed her head.
As soon as the football game was over, George stood and announced it was time for his family to leave. Although Mitzi and Marshall protested, one look from their father silenced them. Eleanor, the grand martyr, had just come from the kitchen.
“What about dessert, George?” Jeanne’s eyes flashed anger. “We haven’t served the pies yet.”
“Fine. We’ll have pie and then leave.”
“We’d better be going, too, Fred.” Eleanor didn’t even bother to take a seat. “I’m exhausted.”
An embarrassed silence fell. Arba rose from the stuffed chair near the corridor. “Why don’t you sit and rest a bit, Mrs. Gaines? Take the weight off your feet.”
Annie stood ready to serve. “What will you have? Apple, mincemeat, pumpkin, or
sweet potato?”
“Sweet potato!” Arba’s children said in unison.
“Apple! Pumpkin!” Mitzi and Marshall joined in exuberantly.
Eleanor grimaced. “Must they shout like that?”
“How about a little slice of each?” Leota said.
“There you go, girl.” Arba grinned.
Eleanor rolled her eyes. “None for me, Anne-Lynn. I’m too tired to be hungry. When everyone’s done, I’ll wash the plates.”
“Apple,” George said, stone-faced. Maybe his team wasn’t winning.
“Corban, what will you have?” Annie said.
“If it’s okay with you, I’ll wait until later.” With luck, the Ice Queen would leave and his appetite would return. Nothing like a contentious woman to sour a man’s stomach.
When Annie went into the kitchen to serve the pies, she saw the roasting pan sitting on the nook table. It was scrubbed so clean it looked sandblasted. Annie opened the refrigerator for a look. What had her mother done with the turkey and leftovers? Heart sinking, she opened the cabinet beneath the sink. Sure enough, her mother had stuffed the meaty carcass into the garbage can, along with the candied yams, mashed potatoes, and peas. So much for turkey sandwiches, turkey casseroles, and turkey soup.
Arba, who had come in to help cut and serve the pies, stood behind her. Annie swallowed hard and quietly closed the cabinet door, fighting the hurt and humiliation that wanted to overwhelm her. Her eyes burned hot with tears. “I’m so sorry, Arba.” How could her mother scrape everything into the trash like that?
“What’re you sorry about, girl? This isn’t your doing.” She stood, hands on her hips, and looked around. “Well, at least the kitchen’s clean.”
Annie gave a soft, broken laugh. “Oh . . .” She covered her face. How would Grandma feel when she found out?
Arba put her arm around her. “Honey, that was the best Thanksgiving dinner I’ve had since my mama went home to the Lord. Don’t let anyone take your joy away, not even your mother!”
Still trembling slightly, Annie nodded. “Thanks, Arba.”