Fall 2000 Charles River Review: Holiday Hell

It's Thanksgiving Day. No one is going to be mad at us for fucking up pie," he says.

Do you even know my family, I wonder? From the passenger seat I scan the horizon for an open supermarket, without any luck. Have you consumed enough of my brother-in-law's homebrew at the past 100 family gatherings not to recognize that anything, even harmless old pie is potential ammunition, regardless of the date on the calendar? He ruined the chocolate pies. My pumpkins looked perfect. But I had to give him credit for making pies at all--lots of husbands wouldn't even think of helping with the food offering. It's the first year my sister Jean and her husband Lee are having Thanksgiving at their new house in Maine. We had been assigned what to bring. Specific pies. Two pumpkin, two chocolate. I called my mother before we got on the road, looking for guidance. I explained to her about the pies never setting over night and how they looked like watery puddles in the refrigerator.

"Well, when I talked to your sister last night, her kids were yelling about chocolate pie in the background. She put Lindsay on the phone, and I asked her what her favorite kind of pie was. She said chocolate."

Thanks Mom. Thanks for the encouragement.

"Just stop on the way and buy some chocolate pudding mix. I'll bring my extra graham cracker crust. You can throw it together before dinner."

With no supermarkets open on the holiday, we probably stop at seven or eight convenience stores in all, and not one single box of chocolate pudding to be found. The whole time Brian can't understand what could be wrong with throwing our hands up in the air.

"We are 18 for dinner," I remind him. "Do you think those two pumpkin pies are going to feed 18 people? If my sister ruined the turkey today, do you think she'd just shrug it off and not find a way to fix the situation?"

"Not your sister."

Whatever that means.

We are, of course, the last ones to arrive. We are immediately greeted by the dog, Boomer, aka Bummer, on account of him biting everyone, including my mother's two precious golden retrievers that she would never leave home alone all day. Last Thanksgiving Bummer tore into Mandy, the older golden, in a territorial fashion, and my mother had to find a vet willing to stitch her up after his turkey dinner. We sent along some pie for him--the vet. So I realize upon entering the kitchen and finding my mother's goldens curled up on their travel beds, that this year Bummer gets to spend the holiday outside at his own house. I waste no time admitting to our lack of chocolate pie.

"That's okay," Peggy, my oldest sister who has come from New Hampshire, consoles me. "I decided to make a few pecans, and Jean made a Swedish apple last night. Plus your two pumpkin is five pies. We don't need more than five pies."

I'm relieved. Temporarily. Being the last person to arrive is tricky business. Apparently not for my husband, who has somehow managed a cold beer in hand and a prime piece of real estate on the couch inside of five minutes. But I, on the other hand, am a target for anything that is already brewing under the surface. My mother is on my tail while I look for a place to hang our coats.

"I don't know where she's going to put everyone . . . she doesn't have enough places or chairs . . . did you see Lee's mother? Oh God... she hasn't had a bath in a month probably--I had to take her to the bathroom and rebutton her dress. She didn't have the buttons matched up, and you could almost see her privates--I thought I'd throw up."

I just nod. I know she has to get it out of her system. None of us really know what the deal is with Lee's mother; even Jean doesn't know, and it's her mother-in-law.

I follow my five-year-old niece upstairs so she can show me her new bedroom furniture and my grown-up nephew Greg is sprawled across her bed with the paper.

"Hey, don't say anything to Jason about Kate not being here. I think she dumped him," he informs me. Jason is his brother. The two of them are closer in age to me than my own siblings.

"Why are you reading up here when everyone else is downstairs?" He's usually the life of the party.

"I see enough of those guys." He is referring to my father and my stepfather. He's been working their construction crew since he moved back from Florida last July. "Zack's here too."

"Did he move in with you guys?"

"I guess. He hasn't slept anywhere else in a while. Yeah, he gave us some rent. He's working construction too."

"With Grampa and Jim?" Anyone who has ever met my father calls him Grampa. "How come Zach's mom never has him over for Thanksgiving?"

"I don't know if he even knows how to get in touch with her anymore."

"Julianne!" shouts the five-year-old Lindsay, whom I dared not pay attention to for 45 seconds. "You're not looking at my room!"

"I am looking; it's beautiful, honey. I love your pretty bedspread."

"But you didn't see my treasures."

I walk over to the dresser she is standing next to and peer into her jewelry box.

"Wow, look at all your sparkly things. Did mommy give you this ring?"

"Those aren't my treasures . . . These are the treasures!" She holds out a cardboard box full of earth-covered rocks.

"Well, I know what you're getting for Christmas this year, Lindsay," Greg chimes in. "It's coming straight outta the backyard."

The man of the house, my brother-in-law Lee, is shouting things like "Bird's good and dead!" and "Hey, Bird, didn't you play for the Celtics?" which inevitable turns into "He shoots, He SCORES!" We take it as a sign that the turkey is ready to go on the table.

In the kitchen my mother, my sister Peggy, and Lee's sister Laura are all looking for serving dishes to put the potatoes in, the stuffing in, the squash in, the turnips in, the creamed onions in. I have been given table-setting duties. No one can find anything she needs. "Uh, hey. Does anyone know where Jean keeps her wine glasses?" I ask. We continue opening cabinets, pulling out drawers, finding sorry excuses for side dish presentation. No one has seen Jean. I am trying to arrange slices of butter inside a coffee mug.

"Use this," my mother thrusts a tea saucer in my direction. "Wait a minute . . ."

My mother gets the look. It's the same look I've seen in her eye many, many times, including the day years ago when she chased Jean around the living room with my baton. She crosses the kitchen and opens the back door; she must have seen them through the window.

"Jean Marie! Do you mean to tell me that you have the gall to hide out here smoking while we all rummage around your kitchen trying to put Thanksgiving dinner on your table!"

She is standing on the back porch along with my nephew, Jason, and Zack. They look confused.

"Ma. We're not doing anything WRONG! Sorry if I wanted to smoke a cigarette after cooking that whole dinner all morning."

"Let me tell you something. I did not drive all the way from New Hampshire to Maine to stand around and wait so you can have a party out here while the whole Thanksgiving dinner gets cold. Next year, I'm going to Jeff and Carolyn's!"

My mother slams the door with a dramatic physicality that is usually reserved for professional mimes.

We are all finally configured around two long, rectangular tables. We sit in parallel lines. This seems like a good policy to me; who knows what havoc perpendicularity could wreak. We just barely fit in this room; once the last person sits down, no one can get out unless we all move. Although, at my mother's suggestion ("Hey, you two boys, this is the Thanksgiving table, NOT the school cafeteria! Jean, are you going to do something about this? I will not have my Thanksgiving dinner ruined by a couple of disrespectful kids"), we do change some seating arrangements. I sit across from my husband, Brian, and between my mother and Jason. Jason gives me a blow-by-blow description of what Lee's mother has spilled down her dress. Brian has been placed strategically next to Jean's oldest son, little Lee. This is because Brian is a middle school teacher with a specialty in behavior management. The glare I am receiving from him can only mean that little Lee is the last person he wants dumped on him on his day off. Brian has told me that, in his professional opinion, the options available to my sister, with regard to this child, are limited to exorcism. This becomes apparent to everyone at the table. While food is being passed around, little Lee sits on his hands and shakes his head side-to-side, repeating his mantra, "Not eating it, not eating it, not eating it," which increases in both speed and volume. There is a major backup of side dishes, while my husband, in a final bargaining plea, eats a huge mouthful of squash, his least favorite vegetable.

"Honey, you ate a verb." I can't resist pointing out.

My mother pinches my under-arm, her mouth clenched. "What is wrong with you? He's not gonna eat that now."

Almost everyone lingers in the dining room at the end of the meal. We are a tired bunch, worn out; we are battle scarred, and we are considering seconds. The children have dispersed, and the adults quietly catch up on the details of each other's lives. A calm has landed between dinner and dessert. And up from that calm travels a thin and tiny voice.

"Mom?"

It is five-year-old Lindsay. She has come from the kitchen. All eyes turn to see her, cranberry sauce staining her upper lip, chin tucked under, bottom lip protruding, quivering.

"Mom? I was looking in the kitchen." Her voice is getting shaky. "Mom? Where is the chocolate pie?"