The kitchen was impossible.
I could scarcely fix a bowl of cereal, let alone a Thanksgiving dinner for six
people. What was I thinking? I vowed that once my husband got a raise in pay, and we could
afford to move, I’d never live in such a tiny place again (or consider
cereal an evening meal).
“This place is just
darling.” My mom was the first to arrive, with my dad in tow and enough food to
feed an army.
“Mom, it’s ridiculous.
Who lives like this?” I leaned back against the door to let them pass.
“Well, some things are
more important than size.” She handed me a Tupperware bowl.
I peeked inside.
Something green to match the bowl.
“I don’t smell coffee,” Mom
said. “Have you made any?”
“No, Mom, you know I
never drink coffee. But I’ll make you a pot now.”
“So David’s parents aren’t
here yet.” My mother continued into the so-called dining room, which in fact
was a section of the living room, which, in turn, was a section of the kitchen.
“Good. Then why don’t you go and change, and I’ll set the table.”
“Change? Mom, this is
what I’m wearing. And as for setting the table—”
“Yes, where is the
table?”
“David’s borrowing a card
table from our neighbor. He’ll be back any minute.”
“You don’t have a table? How do you expect to
entertain seven people—”
“We use TV trays mostly—wait,
seven?”
“I invited Uncle Oscar. I
thought that would be okay. Oh, and he might bring his latest girlfriend. She’s
sixty if she’s day. But don’t mention anything.”
“Like what? Like she
looks sixty or that Uncle Oscar is a felon.”
“He’s not a felon,
Valerie. Vandalism doesn’t really count, and you know he was taking strong
medication at the time. Anyway, it was years ago; why must you hold on to
everything?”
I noticed that my dad,
still standing by the front door, was holding a paper turkey, almost as big as
a real one, with a tail made of wilted orange and yellow feathers and missing
one googly eye that I had bought at the Halloween store. “I brought this,” he
said, by way of explanation. I was touched. I had made Tom the Turkey when I
was in grade school and had no idea my parents still had it. The sight of his Sharpie-drawn
mouth, unlike any real turkey, cheered me.
“As soon as David gets
back, he’ll go right in the middle of the table.” I suddenly felt like
Thanksgiving in our rabbit hutch might work, despite the cramped room, Tom’s
missing eye, and whatever green mushy thing my mother had brought with her. For
reassurance, I opened the lid of the green bowl once more, and then quickly closed it,
enjoying its familiar and comforting burp.
