Scenes From a Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving is about family but it doesn’t have to be the family
you were born into or which you married into. Family is composed of the people it
is not painful to be around. Family is made up of the people who support you. Who
love you enough to let you be you.
I’m off to brine my turkey but below you will find an excerpt
from Unbroken. It is one of my favorite chapters. In it, Lincoln takes Jose home
for Thanksgiving for the first time. Feel free to tell me what you think of this
chapter, by leaving a comment. Or share a Thanksgiving memory.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving dinner at my mother’s was a ritual, an
inescapable obligation. And a torment. My mother made it clear Jose wasn’t
welcome, so we used to drive up from Washington together and he’d go to his
mother and I’d go to mine. My mother didn’t want him there, mostly, I assumed,
because she always invited the hapless daughters of her friends and various
cousins’ friends to dinner. These poor girls were clearly invited for my
benefit. Often the brighter ones looked unhappy, as if being brought together
with me—this slightly effeminate, and wholly uninterested man, clearly an
impossible match—was the best anyone thought they could do.
This particular Thanksgiving, Jose insisted on accompanying
me. Given what had happened at his mother’s, and that we hadn’t been to Sunday
dinner since, I wasn’t surprised when he invited himself along. Fed up with my
mother’s treatment of him, and determined that if there was no place for him,
then I would make a place for him, or give up mine, I agreed. I did not tell my
mother I would be bringing Jose to dinner.
My father answered the door. He looked surprised to see Jose
but simply said hello.
“Is that Lincoln?” my mother called from the kitchen. “Come
in here. I have a special guest I want you to meet.”
“Oh good,” I called heading for the kitchen, Jose in tow. “I
have a special guest, too.”
I walked into the kitchen. My mother’s expression
immediately darkened when she saw Jose.
“I brought Jose along,” I said, and kissed her cheek. “I
knew you wouldn’t mind.”
I glanced at the young woman beside her, who was bent over a
bowl, her hands working furiously at some task. Spindly and hesitant, she
looked like an exotic, upended bird in purple feathers and pleats, her upswept hair
like a great bird’s nest atop her head. Silver bracelets striking, she perched
on the edge of a stool. I realized she was shelling peas. My mother introduced
us—she was aptly named Alouetta Byrd—then, grudgingly went into the dining room
to set a place for Jose.
Alouetta looked at me carefully, through beady, mascaraed
eyes, as if I were a plump worm washed up from the earth during the first heavy
rain of spring after a long dry winter. Jose put his arm around me, his left
hand clasping my right shoulder lightly, in a casual gesture that carried with
it the possessiveness of long intimacy.
“Alouetta,” he said. “Is that French?”
She looked at him for the first time. Her eyes strayed back
to where his hand lay on my shoulder. “Yes. I’m from Louisiana originally,” she
said, shelling peas.
Later, on my way to the bathroom, I noticed my mother had
produced place cards from…somewhere; her arrangement seated Jose as far away
from me as possible. When I returned to the living room I whispered to Jose,
“You will not be happy with the seating arrangements.” He immediately excused
himself.
When he came back, he sat on the sofa beside me and smiled.
Alouetta, unnerved by Jose’s barely concealed hostility, and
my own indifference, self-consciously wandered around the living room,
examining the spines of the books on the shelves and picking up the family
photos that dotted every surface like punctuation in a story of a family. She
picked up a picture of me at age five.
“Oh! Lincoln is that you?”
“It is,” I said.
“Oh my,” she chirped. “Look at all those curls! You look
like a girl!”
My mother tensed. My father and brothers, pretending to be
engrossed in the football game on TV, acted as if they hadn’t heard her
comment. Alouetta, realizing her mistake, put down the picture as if it had
burned or bitten her. Turning to my mother she said brightly, “My, Mrs. de
Chabert, there are certainly a lot of pictures of you!”
“What do you mean?” my mother asked darkly. “There are
pictures of other people.”
“Yes, but you’re in those as well.”
I stifled a laugh. My father and brothers, refusing to get
involved, without taking their eyes off the TV screen, talked loudly to each
other about whatever had just happened on the football field. Jose looked at a
picture of my parents on the end table beside him.
“Hey,” he whispered to me, “your parents look alike. Do you
think we’ll begin to look alike?”
“No,” I whispered back. “They’ve always looked alike.
They’re actually related somehow—though no one is quite sure how.”
“I can’t imagine marrying someone who looked like me,” Jose
said. “What would be the point of that?”
Given my mother’s narcissism, I didn’t find it surprising
she had fallen in love with a man who looked like her.
“I used to wish I looked like you,” I said.
“Me? Why?”
“Because I used to think you were the handsomest boy in the
world.”
“And now?”
“Now I think you’re the handsomest man in the world.” I
glanced around then leaned in and kissed him quickly. My mother caught the
movement and turned her attention on us.
“Hey,” she said loudly, “What are you two plotting over
there?”
Everyone turned to look at us.
“Jose, move over so Alouetta can sit down,” my mother
commanded, then excused herself to return to the kitchen. Jose scooted closer
to me, forcing Alouetta to sit next to him rather than me as my mother had
intended. She perched on the edge of the sofa and leaned around him to speak to
me. Jose sat back stiffly and, ignoring us both, stared at the TV. Suddenly he
turned to her.
“Alouetta—such a pretty name,” he said. “It’s from that
children’s song isn’t it?” He started to sing: “Alouette, gentille alouette, je
te plumerai…”
Alouetta stiffened. “That song,” she said, “is horrible.
It’s about a lark that has her feathers, eyes and beak plucked because she woke
someone with her singing!”
Jose, leaned toward me. “Oops,” he whispered cheerfully in
my ear.
“Dinner’s ready,” my mother trilled.
“It’s show time,” Jose said, rising and tugging me to my
feet.
I was startled when he sat next to me. I looked at him
questioningly and he turned the place card so I could see his name. Seated
directly opposite me, Alouetta looked distinctly displeased.
My mother came in with the turkey and stopped short when she
saw Jose sitting next to me.
“Oh dear,” she exclaimed. “My place cards must have gotten
mixed up. Jose, you’re supposed to be at the other end of the table.”
“Oh, Mrs. De Chabert, everyone is already seated and
comfortable. Let’s not make everyone move.”
Their mutual dislike was palpable. My mother, who does not
like to be challenged, conceded victory and sat at her usual place opposite my
father. My father glared at us as he carved the turkey.
“We should say grace,” Jose said suddenly as everyone
started to pass food. He took my hand, and then grasped the hand of my brother
who sat on his left, forcing everyone to stop passing and receiving food so
they could take the hand of the person next to them. His mumbled prayer went on
and on; went on so long, in fact, that I kicked him under the table. He
mumbled, “Amen” and everyone unclasped hands and picked up their forks. He
continued to hold my hand though, until I tugged it away as discreetly as I
could.
Across the table from me, Alouetta continued to stare at the
spot where our hands had been. Looking at Jose, she asked, “How do you two know
each other?”
“They were roommates in college,” my mother quickly
answered.
Jose cut a piece of turkey with slow deliberation, and
brought it to his mouth.
“Yes, he said. “Also we’re lovers.” He began to chew
savagely.
My father dropped his fork and my brother started to laugh,
but caught sight of my mother’s face and quickly stifled his mirth.
We left before dessert. On the way home in the car, I said,
“Well that could have gone better!”
“I don’t think your brother likes me.”
“Which one?” I asked
“I don’t know. I can’t tell them apart. Rosencrantz, I
think.”
I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart either, except
one was vaguely hostile, while the other—the younger one—vacillated between
indifference and aggressive neutrality. I thought of him as Little Mister
Switzerland. Jose, however, always referred to them interchangeably as
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
“I think you mean Guildenstern,” I said, “but, it doesn’t
matter. I like you.”
He flashed me a smile in the dark and reached for my hand,
then brought it to his lips. “I love you, Spaceman.”
“Me, too.”
“I can’t believe your mother had the balls to try and set
you up with that pathetic bitch right in front of me!”
“Hey look!” I pointed, hoping to distract him, “The Dairy
Queen is open. Come on, I’ll buy you an ice cream.”
We parked and I got him a cone, refusing one for myself.
“I’ll just have a taste of yours,” I said on the way back to
the car.
When he brought it to his mouth, I leaned in and licked it
from the other side. His eyes danced in the dashboard light and we each licked
the ice cream until our tongues met in a cold sticky kiss.
“Hah! I’d like to send your mother a picture of this,” he
said.
***
In the mood for more holiday stories? Then check out the short
story collection Boughs of Evergreen,
which includes holiday stories from 23 authors including me. My contribution is
a Christmas story, “The Christmas Present.”
Best of all the proceeds from the sale of Boughs of Evergreen goes to The TrevorProject, the leading U.S. organization providing crisis intervention and
suicide prevention services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and
questioning (LGBTQ) young people ages 13-24.
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