Gratitude, Part 1

Wednesday Morning

1. Susan

If there's a holiday I don't care about, it's Thanksgiving. But Bobby's family just goes nuts for it. Every year it's a whole procedure. Three generations of extended family (thirty people!) descend on the family farm to eat, drink, and fight over board games until the weekend is over. There's a strict schedule, a dress code, and bizarre traditions that make no sense. At least not to me.

Like how every year, there's a massive carrot cake. No one likes carrot cake. We all complain about the carrot cake. And when the out-of-towners finally leave, the majority of the carrot cake sits on a counter until it molds over and gets tossed out. What's the point of that?

So this year, the first year without Bobby's mother, the first year since we moved into the old farmhouse, we're expected to host the whole clan here. Because Bobby is just useless when it comes to anything domestic, that really means I am expected to host. Well, that means things are going to change. Starting with that goddamn carrot cake.

2. Bobby

It's gonna be really hard without Mom this year. She was the glue, y'know? When we were little, I remember everyone fighting all the time. The family money was drying up, and the farm wasn't doing well, so all Dad's relations were at each others' throats. It was just awful. But when Mom took over the farm, and the hosting duties along with it, it felt like we all turned a page.

I remember the first time we did a big Thanksgiving, just after Gramma died. Mom forced everyone to come and there was all this amazing food, all my favorite cousins in one room, and everyone just so grateful to be together. I think we've been chasing that feeling ever since, all of us who are left, who keep coming back year after year. And now that I'm in charge of the farm, I feel the weight of all those past happy years pressing on my shoulders. It's got to go well.

3. Maisie

"I heard she's getting a caterer for tomorrow," Donna snickers over the phone. "Can you believe it?"

"Where'd she get the money for that?" I'm shoving all my clean underwear in my backpack and digging frantically through the laundry pile. I own precisely one conservative dress and I'm pretty sure I wore it to my last interview. Which was a couple of weeks ago, but it's just got to be in this pile. I need it. God forbid Great-Aunt Bella pulls me aside again to hiss that she could swipe a credit card through my tits, like last year.

"Oh my god, you didn't hear? Her parents were loaded. They died too, can you believe it? Car crash. Only a couple of months after Aunt Christa's stroke." She clucks in sympathy and I almost fall for it before she laughs again. "Now she can buy herself all the stupid duck statues her heart desires, instead of bullying Bobby for 'em."

"Wow, it's been a hard year for them." I sigh and flop on my bed, frustrated. My watch tells me I'm already five minutes late, and I'll have to hustle to make my train. The dress has missed the boat. I'll have to see if I can find a suitable outfit somewhere along the way between Brooklyn and the Farm. "Listen, Donna, I gotta run. Save me some dark meat if I'm late, ok?"

"You better not be! You can't leave me alone with those animals!"

Wednesday Afternoon

1. Bobby

I'm beginning to wonder if I made a mistake. Susan's been screaming at me all day, asking me to do the craziest shit. So far, I've Swiffered the walls, Drano'd every sink, and stuck all sorts of random bits of paper under the table legs so they'll sit stable on the uneven floor. I can't believe any of this is necessary, but if she senses even a hint of complaining it sets her off.

"I thought you wanted to host this year, Bobby. Did you change your mind? Do you want me to stop cooking? So help me God, I will."

"No, no. It's fine, I'll go mop the mudroom." With the mop in hand, fuming, I mutter, "I thought it was supposed to be muddy."

"What was that?" she shrieks from behind me. I ignore her. You can't reason with her when she's like this, which has been often since her parents passed. I wonder what tricks they knew to keep her calm, because I feel like I haven't had a moment's peace since February.

All I want is for her to realize that she still has a family; my family. Ours. I want a moment like the long-ago Thanksgiving of my memories, when Aunt Bella held Mom's hand across the big table and told her how well she'd done. Mom's happy tears. The big sibling hug, which included her for the first time.

2. Susan

We have 15 people coming tonight, 26 tomorrow, and 32 on Friday. But Friday the pressure's off a little, since we'll meet at the restaurant, and Irving's paying. I run through my checklist again. I have everything I need for tonight: cheese and crackers, four ducks, seven pounds of potatoes, an ocean of spinach, and three Costco pumpkin pies that I'll dress up and pretend are homemade. Tomorrow, the caterers will handle everything. I'll just have to make sure the kitchen is serviceable. If Bobby would hurry up with his cleaning, we'd be in a good place.

He keeps complaining about the work, like it's a shock that the place is a mess. The farmhouse is about a million years old. It breathes dust. His grandparents used to smoke inside, and on rainy days I swear I can still smell cigars in the den. There are some things we can't fix before tomorrow: the toilet that's always running, the warped floorboards in the dining room, the family of raccoons hiding somewhere in the attic. But Bobby refuses to change anything substantial about the old pile, dragging his feet on calling contractors or scheduling inspections. Like anything else in this house, if I want it done, I have to do it myself.

As I truss the ducks, I find myself nostalgic for our past Thanksgivings. I miss when our biggest fight was over who had to stay sober enough on Thursday to drive the three miles home after game night. I miss skipping Friday's mess to watch the parade with my family. I miss my family.

3. Maisie

Things go from bad to worse. I miss the train by seconds and get rebooked on another a half hour later, which means I only have 20 minutes to find a suitable Thanksgiving outfit in a four block radius around Penn Station. Fashion district my ass. I have to settle for the only skirt that isn't basically a spandex tube, a true burlap sack special that I have a breakdown over in the changing room. Which leaves me five minutes to find three tops. I pick up a classic I <3 NY top, hoping it will read as camp, and two plain black shirts.

I change in the swaying Amtrak bathroom just before we reach the bumfuck-middle-of-nowhere RTE 128 station. Only when I open the plastic shopping bag do I see, in horror, the graphic sayings printed across the chest of both black tees.

Tee 1: FBI (Female Body Inspector)

Tee 2: BAD GIRLS SUCK, GOOD GIRLS SWALLOW

Well, fuck.

Wednesday Night

1. Bobby

Aunt Bella leans into my ear, sending a waft of pure mothball towards me. "No turkey? On Thanksgiving?"

"It's not Thanksgiving," I say. But she's right. What the hell was Susan thinking? Duck? And there's hardly enough of it. Irving, Ava, and Maisie haven't even arrived and the carcasses are already mostly picked over. But somehow, we have too much mashed potato, and the wimpiest bowl of creamed spinach I've ever seen. At least the cheese and crackers were good.

"Christa is turning in her grave," Aunt Bella mutters. I have a horrible concern it's true

I chime a knife against my wine glass and stand. The room quiets, even the kids roughhousing at their table.

"I'd like to make a toast. It's been a really hard year. But having traditions like this make it worth it, all the bad. I feel a lot of good here. Before we dig in, I'd like to share one of my favorite memories with my Mom. After the first Thanksgiving we hosted, I helped her wash dishes in the kitchen. She told me she'd never felt like part of the family until that night, because she'd never felt needed. I want to let everyone in this room know that you're needed. I love you all. To mom."

"To Christa," chants the room solemnly before sipping at their drinks.

"Now let's eat! We have a mountain of mashed potato to eat," I joke, and everyone laughs as the companionable clink of forks and knives starts up.

Susan doesn't pick up her utensils. She stares at me across the rim of her glass, practically smoking in fury.

2. Maisie

We're almost forty-five minutes late already, but Mom won't let me out of the car until I change my shirt.

"It's not appropriate," she insists. "This is a nice family dinner. You must have brought something else, anything else."

"Fine!" I snap. Quickly, I turn the SUCK/SWALLOW shirt inside out and swap it for the I <3 NY shirt I donned on the Amtrak.

"Now, was that so hard?" She sighs and we clamber out of the car. "Honestly, Maisie, that skirt is terrible, too. I thought we sent you to Parsons to learn about fashion."

"Yeah, I know," I agree in pure misery.

Susan opens the door with a manic grin.

"We started without you," she says. "Maisie, you're at the kid's table."

3. Susan

The embarrassment I feel at the plates I serve the latecomers is palpable. I can only tease the saddest shreds of duck meat out from the bones, and I try to arrange them over the mashed potatoes in such a way as to hide their scarcity. The spinach isn't much help. I forgot how much it cooks down: what looked like too much this afternoon has turned into a mere garnish. I douse the potatoes in gravy and hope they won't pay too much attention.

My mood sours further as I see Ava has pushed my mostly-empty plate to the side so she can sit next to Bobby. I place her plate with more force than necessary before gathering my drink and exiling myself to the far end of the table, sitting between Bobby's odious brother Irving and their cousin Tilly, who has a terrible habit of sniffing constantly. Ava has the audacity to brush hair out of Bobby's face while they laugh at some joke together. As if his speech weren't bad enough, he's got to entertain her snakey advances as well? I look to Irving, but he's digging into the potatoes with gusto and telling some boring story about traffic. Everyone is chatting, everyone is smiling. Well, not me.

The only person who matches my grouchy mood is Maisie. She's barely eaten anything. She's texting on her phone, ignoring the calamity that's going on at her elbows as Bella's grandkids come perilously close to tipping their juice glasses all over my tablecloth.

"Maisie?" warbles Bella. I hope she's about to read her the riot act for texting at the table and ignoring her younger cousins. But she surprises me. "Is your shirt on inside out?"

"Um. Yeah. Weird." A blotchy blush creeps up her cheeks.

"Well, go right it at once," Bella sniffs in disapproval.

"No thanks, Great-Aunt Bella. I like it this way."

"Maisie, don't be ridiculous." Ava chimes in before Bella can do more than gasp in outrage. "Go to the bathroom."

Maisie stands in a huff, throwing her napkin on the table. I wish I could be her age again, flighty and stormy, world at my feet. She's such a good-looking girl, or she would be if she dressed for her figure. That skirt does nothing for her. I refill my wine glass and let myself get angrier about Bobby's toast.

He couldn't have even thanked me? He didn't even mention my name. He's acting like he's hosting, but what has he done other than push a vacuum around halfheartedly? I'm the one that slaved all day to make a gourmet meal for his family. I'm the one who moved into this rundown farmhouse and committed to fixing it up after years of neglect, with my own money, for his family. I'm the one -

Bella shrieks. I'm jerked out of my rage spiral. Standing in the doorway, hands at her hips, is Maisie with the shirt turned right side out. It proclaims proudly: 'BAD GIRLS SUCK, GOOD GIRLS SWALLOW."

"This better?" she asks sweetly, winking at her gobsmacked mother before twirling that shapeless skirt back to the kid's table. I can't help it. I start laughing, cackling, really. The room is shocked, but slowly people start to join me. Finally we're all laughing, even Bella, though she's fanning herself with a napkin like she's fighting off a hot flash.

It's the first time all day I've felt happy. Cheers to that.