by Sonja Yoerg
“I won’t be a minute.” Martin leaves. His brisk, efficient response makes Jackie think he might have been in the military.
As soon as the door closes, Jackie says, “I guess we’ll need another place at the table.”
Their mother appears taken aback by Jackie’s tone.
Grace says, “It’s not a problem, Mom. We’ve got plenty.”
“I would’ve mentioned it earlier, but I just asked him yesterday.”
Grace scrunches her face in confusion. “How long have you been seeing each other?”
Cheryl waves her hand. “A few months.”
“He didn’t have plans?” Jackie says.
“Oh, he did.” Cheryl unbuttons her coat and hands it to Jackie, who takes it automatically. “But he changed them. That’s how it is.”
Jackie glances at Grace, but she is bewildered, too. “How what is?”
Their mother sighs. “He’ll be back in a minute, but the short of it is I’ve told Martin that because I’m a feminist, he must maintain flexibility. I won’t have anything to do with a man who can’t respect my wishes, even if they are last minute.”
“Mom,” Jackie says, “I’m pretty sure being a feminist isn’t the same as being an autocrat.”
Cheryl walks past Jackie into the kitchen.
“I think what Jackie means,” Grace says, “is that you could’ve asked him earlier.”
“Why make things easy for him? Did any man ever do that for me?” She looks from one daughter to the other.
Jackie says, “I assume that was rhetorical.”
“I wouldn’t bother with them at all, except I’ve discovered I enjoy sex, now that it’s not with Samuel Strelitz.” Cheryl makes a point of referring to their father by his full name, as if he were a distant relative or a name on a business card. She scans the covered dishes on the counters and the stove. “Looks like you girls have everything under control. Jackie, have you opened a bottle of wine?”
There was crying from upstairs.
“That’s Edith,” Grace says. “Back in a flash.”
Jackie is tempted to follow her to be spared more intimate commentary on her dead father. Instead, she finds the wine Miles stashed in the pantry and pulls out a bottle. On this, and little else, she and her mother can agree.
She pours them each a glass of pinot noir—her mother’s favorite because the good bottles don’t come cheap. Cheryl has worked in the registrar’s office at Mary Baldwin University in Staunton since Samuel Strelitz moved out. With steady pay increases, she earns enough to live in comfort, but not splendor. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mom.”
They touch glasses. Her mother’s smile is warm. “And to you, dear.”
Martin Rhodes is back, along with Hector and Miles, who appear to have met Martin on their way back from Hector’s workshop.
Hector checks his watch. “Game time, friends. Miles, can you get everyone a drink, open another bottle for the table, and get out the apple cider for the kids?” He guides Martin to the island where the turkey is under foil. “If you would carve the bird for us, I’d be honored. We just do it in the kitchen. No Norman Rockwell moments for us.”
Martin gives a solemn nod. “I’m your fellow.”
Jackie brings her glass to the stove. “Gravy duty here.”
Her mother leaves her perch on the stool. “I’ll just put the bread and relish on the table.”
“Awesome.” Hector knows Cheryl doesn’t like taking orders, but she’s not lazy.
And that’s the thing about her mother. Jackie may not like her, but she can’t help respecting her. Cheryl raised her daughters to be independent, to value their intelligence and capacity for work, to set goals and stick to them. After Cheryl managed to push Samuel Strelitz out of their marriage, she was unapologetic and unafraid, setting an example of how well the world could function without men. Within months, and without any prior history of office work, she secured the job at Mary Baldwin. Jackie was in third grade and Grace had started kindergarten. After school, the girls would go next door to the Trumbulls, who were retired. The arrangement lasted until Jackie was eleven, old enough to take care of herself and her sister, given that the Trumbulls were still next door and her mother a phone call away. Jackie remembers that time as more settled than her earlier childhood; the calm and predictability were like warm milk. Jackie missed her father, but the rare visits she and Grace had with him were disruptive and strange. He was too polite with them and would comment on how nice she and Grace looked, as if he had forgotten that they were older, and didn’t have jelly stains on their shirts anymore or tangled braids.
Jackie learned her mother’s lessons: Have self-respect and self-reliance, but do not be selfish. Watch over your sister. Be thoughtful of your mother. And, most of all, beware of men.
And Grace? Grace smiled and nodded and ultimately followed her own heart. She didn’t remember when her parents had been together and so avoided the emotional branding that framed the cautionary tale. Grace listened to her mother politely and attentively, absorbing what resonated with her and discarding the rest. How Grace knew what to accept and what to reject mystifies Jackie to this day.
Jackie pours the gravy into the ceramic boat and places it beside the platter of turkey, the slices evenly carved and neatly arrayed. She smiles at Martin, acknowledging his skill and care. Run while you can, she wants to shout, but instead refills his glass.
Grace and Hector fill up four plates for the older children and a bowl for Edith, tiny piles from each dish.
Michael hovers at Grace’s elbow. “I can eat twenty zillion times more mashed potato than that!”
“After you try the rest.” She distributes plates, tucks in napkins, butters rolls, adjusts chairs.
Hector sits with Edith on his lap. She strains against his arm and sticks her fingers in her sweet potatoes. “Anyone care if the kids start? No? Wonderful!”
Cheryl stands next to Miles, making small talk, Jackie assumes. When Jackie first introduced Miles to her mother upon their return from their Vegas wedding, Cheryl offered brief congratulations, then made a feeble excuse to Miles and pulled Jackie aside. “What was wrong with Harlan? Tell me again why you broke up? It seemed like the perfect arrangement to me.”
“I can set you two up.” Jackie’s intention was to wound her mother for her pointless posthumous opinion; she had no other ready response. To talk of love would only cause her mother to sigh with impatience. To enumerate Miles’s good qualities—his kindness, his generosity, his steadiness—would only cause her mother to shake her head at Jackie’s gullibility and neediness. What was the point? Anxious to duck the burden of her mother’s disapproval, Jackie said nothing more and cut the visit short.
Jackie’s routine sarcastic jokes about her mother, then and now, are deflections from the sad and obvious truth that Jackie has not moved beyond pleasing Cheryl. Grace has disappointed their mother in choosing to be a stay-at-home mom with five children; that Grace is happy is a detail Cheryl dismisses, and Grace ignores their mother’s disapproval. No wonder Jackie never told her mother why she acquiesced to Miles’s snap proposal in Las Vegas, why she didn’t mind the instant wedding. Miles had agreed to have a child—or to consider having one, which seemed awfully close—and that, along with their undeniable compatibility, made it seem like the right decision. They been dating two and a half years, plenty long enough given the time she’d wasted on Harlan. She had in front of her a man who, instead of freezing time, wished to accompany her on a journey. How could she anticipate that he would sleep most nights in distant cities, that their sex life would be at the mercy of his schedule rather than mutual desire? How could she predict that Antonio’s problems would worsen and blight Miles’s enthusiasm for parenting?
Now, in Grace’s kitchen, Miles has left Cheryl’s side and stands in front of Jackie. His eyes are tinged with sadness, whether for him, for her, or for them, she can’t tell. Perhaps all three.
“You ready to sit? Everything looks delic
ious.”
She doesn’t want to blame him, not today. The day is about giving thanks. “It really does. Lead the way.”
She stops at the table to set down her wineglass. Daniel peers up at her, his dark eyes glittering, and points to the empty seat beside him. “You’re next to me, Aunt Jackie!”
“Oh, lucky me!” She returns to the island and picks up the last plate. Yes, lucky in many ways, with much to be thankful for, starting with a roomful of people who love her. Everyone has unfulfilled dreams, buried hopes, misgivings, and regrets. She must adjust her sights.
Jackie takes her place at the table. Miles is conversing with Martin, making the most of whatever common ground he can find. Hector smiles down the length of the table at Grace, who is transferring her mashed potatoes onto Daniel’s plate so she doesn’t have to get up yet again. Their mother is across from Grace, smiling slightly at no one in particular, content (for the moment) in her well-made dress, with her willing but temporary man. She is not adjusting her sights. She bends the world.
Jackie’s bind is this: she can accept what she already has, what her mother schooled her to value—her work, her independence—or she can convince Miles they should have a child, now. The decision is in the spirit of her mother’s edict, if not the letter of it. If Jackie truly wished to honor her mother’s courage, she would have the child anyway. But Jackie could never unilaterally bring a child—however conceived—into the marriage without Miles’s blessing, and so has painted herself into a corner over a man yet again.
If Cheryl could read her daughter’s thoughts, she would be appalled.
Jackie drains her wine and gets up to retrieve another bottle. Grace’s eyes follow her as she pours herself a glass and passes the bottle to Miles to pour for the others.
Grace leans toward her. “Did you talk to Miles? I can’t read you guys.”
“I did.”
“How’d it go?”
“Like this.” Jackie picks up her glass and drains it. Grace’s concern is etched on her face. “Don’t worry. Miles is driving.”
CHAPTER 12
Late afternoon on the Wednesday following Thanksgiving, Jackie strides down Q Street, mapping out errands in her head. First, the dry cleaners, then CVS and the liquor store. The return trip to the car will count as weight training. With the busiest part of her week behind her, she’s in no hurry. She used the long weekend to catch up on absolutely everything and feels in control and organized. Miles is away until Friday night—Florida, if she remembers correctly—so her plans for the evening are a bowl of popcorn, a bottle of wine, and a movie. Bliss.
She passes the shoe repair store and makes a mental note to drop off her favorite Italian boots to be reheeled. Next door is Bean There, the window tables jammed with students hunkered over laptops. Jackie stops and looks more closely at the woman seated at the corner table, staring out at the street, her hands cupped around a mug. Nasira. Jackie hasn’t seen her since before the holiday; Nasira wasn’t present at the lab meeting on Monday and didn’t show for her one-on-one with Jackie yesterday afternoon. Wary of appearing to meddle in her postdoc’s personal business, Jackie decided to let another day pass before reaching out. But now that Nasira is right there—and obviously not severely ill—Jackie’s curiosity is piqued.
Nasira meets Jackie’s gaze and lifts a hand in greeting. Jackie smiles and walks inside as if it were her original intention. It might very well have been; she lives a few blocks away, as does Nasira now that she thinks about it, albeit in the other direction. She orders a chai latte, fiddles with her phone until the drink is ready, and approaches Nasira’s table.
“Hi, Nasira. I don’t mean to intrude.”
“It’s okay.” She doesn’t offer a smile, subdued beyond her usual cool demeanor and perhaps anxious as well.
“Are you all right? I haven’t seen you—”
“I’m sorry about missing our meeting. I should’ve let you know.” She straightens, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and gestures to the empty seat across from her.
Jackie drapes her coat over the back of the chair and sits. The situation is odd. They haven’t met outside the lab since the Dinner. Jackie wants to know what’s going on, but there isn’t a way to ask. She crosses her legs, sips her chai, and burns her mouth. “Ow!” Before Nasira can say anything, Jackie holds up her hand. “I’m fine.”
Nasira lets out a long breath. “My apartment was broken into over the weekend.”
“Oh no! You weren’t there when it happened, were you?”
“No. They tossed it, but only took a couple of things.”
Jackie pictures her own living room, her bedroom, upended by a stranger, and shivers. “I hope it wasn’t anything you can’t replace.”
“No, just electronics.” She sips her drink, relaxes a little. “They broke in through the French doors at the back.”
“That’s really frightening, Nasira.” Jackie doesn’t remember discussing Nasira’s Thanksgiving plans with her. After the Greenbrier incident, she’s avoided that sort of inquiry. “Had you been away? I mean, might you have been home when they broke in?”
“Oh, no. I was visiting my parents. The police are pretty sure the burglars knew I was away. The people upstairs from me were gone, too. They weren’t broken into, but they also weren’t home to hear anything.”
“I’m really sorry. I can’t imagine.” Jackie senses Nasira hasn’t finished what she wants to say. “Why didn’t you let me know what happened? I noticed you weren’t at the lab, but never imagined this was the reason.”
Nasira’s gaze grows more intent. “What did you imagine?”
“I don’t know exactly—”
“I couldn’t stay at my apartment. The landlord was away, too. He does all the repairs himself. Plus I’m not staying there again without a security system.”
“Totally understandable.” Nasira is openly staring at her now, and Jackie realizes they are sailing toward the reason Nasira raised this topic. Jackie can damn well guess what it is. Her face burns, and a trickle of sweat runs down her spine. She should excuse herself, leave, but she won’t. Having decided to see this through, she wades straight in. “You must’ve found somewhere to stay already, but Miles and I have an extra room in our house if that’s any help to you.”
The offer ought to be received with a touch of gratitude. A smile would do. Nasira has seen through Jackie, however—it’s clear from her expression—and she’s not playing nice. Jackie pulls back from the table, in anticipation of the blow.
“Oh, I’m all set,” Nasira says. “On Sunday, when I discovered the break-in, I was supposed to go to a movie with Harlan, so he knew about it right away. He has plenty of room, too.” She is tracing the rim of her mug with one delicate finger. The nail is perfect, shell pink. “It’s easier, in a way, since I’m working on that grant every evening, and he’s been such a huge help. It’s coming along really well.”
Jackie is transfixed by the bald admission that they are living together. In what world is that acceptable? Surely Nasira is not blind to the impropriety of dating Jackie’s colleague (her ex!) or the yawning chasm of their age gap. The only sign of Nasira’s discomfort is the length of her speech. Jackie has never heard her string so many words together in casual conversation.
“It’s just convenient,” Nasira adds.
“Wow.”
“Wow?”
“Yes. Wow.” Jackie’s jealousy catches fire. She wants to take a bite out of this woman. “I feel like that word should be an acronym. Maybe it stands for Wow Oh Wow.”
Nasira arranges her hands in her lap and frowns. “Harlan warned me about this.”
“This?”
“You.”
“Me.”
“Yes. He said you wouldn’t take it well.”
“I said ‘wow’ and now I’m not taking it well?”
“You’re obviously upset.”
Jackie lifts her mug slowly and takes a long sip, demonstrating her absolute control
. It takes more effort than she anticipated. The thought of Harlan coaching Nasira on Jackie’s reaction is maddening all by itself. Like she’s some lunatic who has to be managed. “I’ll admit I’m surprised.”
“And upset.” She pauses, scanning Jackie’s face, her posture. “Seems like Harlan was right.”
Jackie laughs, a bitter, metallic sound even to her own ears. “Harlan is always right. Look, Nasira, the fact that Harlan is worried about my reaction tells you a lot about the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. He knows it’s inappropriate.”
Nasira’s eyes flash in anger. “Your behavior and your comments are what’s inappropriate. Harlan told me about the stalking, you know. Lucky for you that was after the police asked me if I had problems with anyone recently.”
“You can’t be serious.” Her scalp is sweating, and she resists the urge to adjust her hair. Instead, she pushes her mug away.
“They asked. Some burglaries are personal apparently.”
“And Harlan has you convinced you should have mentioned me to the police?” Jackie is incredulous. Driving by someone’s house, however embarrassing and lamentable, is not in the same league as burglary.
Nasira purses her lips. “I don’t think we should keep talking about this.”
“Probably not.” Jackie stands. She regrets having approached Nasira at all. The young woman is naive and will believe whatever Harlan tells her. It pains Jackie to admit she had been exactly the same only a few years ago. She feels a surge of empathy for her younger self—and Nasira. “Just be careful.”
“That’s ironic, Jackie.” Nasira has boxed in her anger and returned to her prim Disney-princess persona, lifting her chin slightly, widening her eyes. “Because that’s exactly what Harlan said to me about you.”
Jackie hurries out of the café and pulls her phone from her coat pocket as she race-walks toward the dry cleaners. She pecks the screen, calls Harlan. The sidewalk is jammed with holiday shoppers, and Jackie weaves through them, her blood pressure rising as the phone rings again and again and again. He’s avoiding her, the coward. The call goes to voice mail; his recorded message is slick and precise and infuriating.
