Thanksgiving
Katherine kept her vigil at the front window all day on Friday. On Saturday afternoon, though, Becky and Sara dragged her away and took her out for a walk.
“A little exercise, you’ll feel better,” Sara told her. “Besides, you need to buy a new coat. It’s going to be really cold before you expect it.”
Normally, Katherine would have set the pace just short of a trot, but she barely picked her feet off the ground. The thirty-minute walk took in two blocks, up and back.
“Sorry I couldn’t do more,” she said as they returned to the apartment.
“I’ll look for a coat on Monday, on my way home.” She sank onto the sofa and sighed. “Actually, I’m really tired. I think I’ll lie down.”
“Steven is coming over,” Becky said as Katherine pulled herself up. “He’s bringing dinner.”
“I told him I didn’t want a pizza.”
“That was Thursday. He’s not bringing a pizza.”
“What then?”
“A surprise,” Becky said. “You’ll see.”
***
Steven knocked as the clock struck six.
“Don’t open the door! We’re not here!” Katherine had just started into the kitchen to pour a glass of tea, and she spun around, full of panic. She took two steps back, away from the door, then stopped, poised to run for the back of the apartment.
Becky caught her. “It’s Steven, Katherine. It’s all right. It’s Steven. He is bringing dinner. Remember?”
Sara opened the door. “Come on in, it smells delicious.”
“How is everyone?”
“We’re fine,” Sara replied. “What’s for dinner?”
“Barbeque from the Shining Stallion.”
“Oh, I love that stuff,” Becky said. “Katherine, it’s your favorite.”
They filled plates with meat, coleslaw, and rice, and they sat around the living room, eating.
Katherine’s stomach was churning—it had started when Steven arrived—and she was not really hungry, but the smell of the barbeque made her mouth water. Besides, she wanted to be polite, so she took a few small bites.
“What’s going on at the Museum?” Becky asked.
“The exhibit will be closing in a couple of weeks. Some of it is going to Oxford, to be part of an exhibit they are staging. We’ll pack the pieces and send them off. Hopefully they will arrive in time. I’m going over to help with it in January.”
Katherine was barely listening. She sat, with her eyes closed, at least enjoying the taste of the barbeque.
“Sounds exciting. Doesn’t it sound exciting, Katherine?”
Katherine opened her eyes. She glanced at Steven, then averted her eyes, looking down at her plate.
“It really does.”
“I would love to go to England for a couple of weeks,” Sara said. “Don’t you think it would be fun, Katherine?”
Katherine did not respond at first. She looked out the window, then turned back to Sara. “I’m sure it would be.” She began to toy with her food, moving it aimlessly around the plate.
“I’m excited.” Steven spoke, filling the silence. “I haven’t been back to Oxford since I moved to New York.” He turned to Katherine. “While I was talking to you the other day, Martine walked in with a fax from Professor Spence. She heard that you didn’t feel well and she asked if you were pregnant.” Steven laughed.
“Why did she ask that?” Katherine barked.
“What?” Steven jerked back, a look of surprise across his face.
“Why would she ask if I were pregnant? Why would I be? Does she think I’m a tramp?”
“Katherine, Katherine,” Becky’s voice was soft. “She didn’t mean anything. Nothing at all.”
Putting her plate down, Katherine rose and walked across to the window, softly mumbling under her breath. “Why would she suggest something like that? I’m not a tramp. She must not think much of Steven either. I mean, what kind of man dates a tramp?” As she stared at traffic on the street, she faintly heard Becky.
“Steven, help me.”
Katherine waited for Steven’s reply.
“She just meant that it was morning and you were sick. Martine’s mind works like that.”
Katherine did not move.
Steven walked to the window and placed his hand on her shoulder. “It just popped out. She didn’t mean anything by it.”
She turned to face him, her hands clenched. “What did you tell her? Did you make some stupid joke? Brag a little bit?” She snorted. “Guys are all alike!” She glared at him, daring him to respond.
“I said, ah, I said no, of course. I told her that she had a dirty mind.”
Katherine continued to stare at him for several seconds, dropping her eyes before turning and walking away.
“The barbeque was very good, Steven. Thank you.” Katherine turned to leave the room. “I’m going to bed.” She closed the door behind her, leaned against it for support, and began to cry softly.
“I’ll put her plate away.” She heard Becky through the door. “She may want to finish it later.”
“What’s wrong?” It was Steven’s voice now. “Will someone tell me? Did I do something?”
After a brief silence, Becky spoke. “It’s not anything that you did, Steven. Nothing. Give her some time. She will be all right.”
There was another silence before Steven spoke again. “I suppose I had better go.”
As the front door closed, Katherine opened the bedroom door a crack to make sure Steven was gone. She saw Sara and Becky walk into the kitchen.
“We need to tell him what happened,” Sara said softly. “He can help her.”
“No one. Tell no one,” Katherine shouted before turning and flinging herself across her bed, sobbing into her pillow.
***
Steven stopped in to see Katherine again, a week later. Becky and Sara left to run errands immediately after he arrived.
“How is work going?” he asked.
“You know, there is always a morning rush and then things calm down.”
Katherine was sitting stiffly in one of the chairs in the living room while Steven sat across from her, on the sofa. She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. Neither one spoke for several seconds.
“Read any good books lately?” Steven smiled.
Katherine half-smiled in return. She looked up briefly, and Steven glimpsed her puffy red eyes. “Not lately, no.”
He wanted to put his arms around her, she looked so unhappy, but she had barely let him kiss her cheek when he had arrived, and her body had felt tense when he had hugged her.
“Martine is cooking Thanksgiving dinner. First time ever. She asked everyone what to have, and everyone told her to have turkey, but you wouldn’t believe what people eat with turkey on Thanksgiving. I told her to have rice, gravy, and dressing. Susan, from the director’s office, said corn casserole and pineapple upside down cake. Someone else told her to have boiled potatoes and chess pie.” He chuckled. “What would you have said?”
Katherine shrugged. “I don’t know.” She stared out the window, a blank expression on her face, while Steven waited. “Mom usually has a green bean casserole.”
“Martine stomped around the office one afternoon complaining, ‘Thanksgiving dinner is an American tradition! Why is there no American traditional menu?’ I pointed out that people in Paris eat different things than do those in Marseilles, but she just doesn’t quite get the idea that we’re not all the same. I have no idea what she decided to cook, what to expect.”
He waited for Katherine to say something, but she sat, looking at her feet. Her arms were wrapped protectively around her body. She said nothing.
“She asked me to invite you.”
“I’m sorry, Steven, I won’t be able to go.”
“Are you working that day, or on-call? I’m driving over, so if you’re on-call I can bring you back if you need to report.”
“I’m not working.” She shoo
k her head. “I’m not on call. I just won’t be able to go.”
“Oh. I am, well, Martine will be disappointed.”
Katherine turned to the window. “Steven, you need to go.”
“I can stay until Becky and Sara return.”
“I don’t need a babysitter. Go. Leave.”
Steven made no move to go, and Katherine took a deep breath. A look of pained resolve spread across her face. “I don’t think that things are going to work out between us, Steven. Maybe ten years was too long.” She turned to face him. “You need to find someone else, someone better.” A single tear trickled down her cheek.
Steven was stunned. He felt sick at his stomach, his head was spinning, and the world seemed to be turning dark.
“What do you mean things won’t work out? What do you mean I should find someone better? Better than you, Katie?” Steven reached to take her hand, but she stiffened as he touched her, and she turned away.
“I love you, Katie.”
“Go, Steven. Go.”
“You need to tell me what I did. Please, Katie.” He took a deep breath and stared at the bookcase across the room. “I love you, Katie.”
She turned back to face him. “You don’t really know me—my name isn’t Katie, it’s Katherine—so you see, you can’t love me. You don’t know who I really am. Go, Steven. Please.”
He started to reach out to her again, but she pulled back. Her eyes were small and dark, her mouth set in a firm straight line. Steven hesitated. He held out his hand, but she refused to take it.
“Go, Steven,” she ordered. “Leave. Don’t come back.”
Left with no choice, Steven left. He met Becky and Sara as he reached the street. They looked at him, faces full of worry.
He was shaking and his breathing was labored. He had difficulty speaking. “She wanted me to leave,” he told them. “It came out of nowhere. Said I should find someone better than she is.” He looked back at the front window, where she sat, watching them. “She wouldn’t tell me what I did.” He choked. “She doesn’t want to see me again.”
***
The next morning, Steven told Martine that he would be coming to dinner solo on Thanksgiving. Martine looked at him suspiciously.
“Did you have a fight with her, Steven? If you had a fight, you need to apologize, even if she was in the wrong.”
“We didn’t have a fight.” He turned and walked into his office. Martine followed him.
“What did you do to her, then? Did you hit her? Sleep with her roommate?”
“Nothing, Martine, I did nothing. She just lost interest.” He sat down and closed his eyes, knowing she would continue.
“American women,” Martine snorted, “they are so, so inconstant, fickle, you say! You need a good French woman, Steven. She would not treat you like this.” Her eyes cut to the left as she stopped to think. “You will come to dinner without her?”
“Yes, yes, I said I will be there.”
“Good.” Martine smiled as she turned away.
“Martine,” Steven called. “No blind date for Thanksgiving dinner.”
When Martine replied in French, Steven laughed. “Non, Martine. Pas de rendez-vous avec une inconnue pour diner!”
Martine laughed, too. “We shall see, Dr. Richardson. We shall see.”
***
Thanksgiving Day was cold and gray. Katherine awoke early. Becky and Sara had left the day before to go home, one to DC the other to Boston. Katherine was scheduled to work on Friday and Saturday, so a trip to Richmond had seemed to be impractical.
She had decided to go to the Macy’s parade. As a child, each year on Thanksgiving morning, she had glued herself to the television set, watching the parade from beginning to end. Her mother would even bring her breakfast to the family room if she awoke late.
It had been Sara’s suggestion. Sara had seen it live the year before and had found it to be really exciting. Although Katherine initially maintained that she could watch the parade better on TV, she finally had decided to go. Maybe Sara was right. Maybe standing in the crowd, listening to the bands, watching the floats, and feeling the excitement in the air would help her to feel better. Perhaps it would be cool to see the parade live. A distraction at least.
She had scoped out the route after work earlier in the week, and had located a spot near the beginning of the two-and-a-half-mile route, hoping that the crowds would not be as thick there as they would be farther along. Still, she left the house early and she found a place on what would become the front row. The temperature was near freezing. She wore a heavy sweater and her new winter coat, and she carried a cup of hot coffee. After a while, she was able to peer down the street and see the first units beginning to fall in line.
The crowd was growing. She looked around at the children, jumping about in excitement. Laughter and happy voices filled the air. Katherine began to relax for the first time in weeks.
It was a big parade. Sitting on the floor at home, drinking hot chocolate, the two to three hours passed so quickly. She smiled.
It’s the same today. It is really good!
As a child, she had been fascinated by the giant balloons, and she found them to be even more impressive in person. Donald Duck, Superman, Bullwinkle all floated past her. She found herself jumping and waving, just like the children next to her. At one point, the children’s mother caught her eye, and Katherine laughed. The lady smiled.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said. “I’d be jumping too, if I had the energy!”
A high school band was approaching. Bands from across the country vied for invitations to march in the parade, but this one appeared to be from a local high school, judging from the cheers rising from the crowd. The band marched in two sections, with two rows of baton twirlers between them. As the drum major passed Katherine, the band halted, turned to the left where a contingent of middle-aged adults—parents, Katherine supposed—stood clapping and screaming.
The band struck up “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” the baton twirlers danced and tossed their batons, a special show for the home folks. The twirlers snaked around the band, and then formed a circle between the sections, with the baton captain in the middle. Her baton went higher and her dance steps were more intricate than those of the others. At the conclusion, she tossed her baton into the air—as high as the third story of the building across the street, Katherine guessed—and caught it, falling into a deep bow. The crowd began to cheer.
A stout man with sandy-colored hair was standing up front, next to a dark-haired woman and two little girls. All four were clapping and cheering. The twirler ran to them and hugged all four before returning to her position. Probably her family, Katherine decided. The drum major blew his whistle, and the band turned and resumed its march.
As the band passed, Katherine looked back at the sandy-haired man. He was bent over talking to one of the little girls who pointed down the street, toward a massive sleigh, the last unit in the parade. The man laughed and picked her up.
They seem like such a nice family, Katherine thought, especially the father. A lot of men—not her father, of course, but many men—would have stayed home, piled up in bed on a holiday morning, but he had taken the opportunity to spend time with his wife and children. They reminded her of the family she had hoped to have one day.
As she watched them, the man turned his head, and his eyes met Katherine’s, then drifted away. Katherine gulped.
The bartender.
She started to turn, to run away, but something caught her eye and she looked back. The man had a wife! And three daughters! He had allowed those men to do what they did, and he had a wife and three daughters at home. Had he thought that she was someone’s daughter? Had he thought that it could have been his little girl in the room upstairs?
He had a family. Thanks to him, she never would now. Not the one she had dreamed of having. The one with Steven. Maybe it wasn’t his fault that she had been attacked, but still, if he had warned her…
&n
bsp; Again, their eyes met. An expression of recognition crossed the man’s face. Even from across the street, she saw him redden. He dipped his head and turned away.
Katherine had the urge to cross the street, to confront him in front of his family, let them know what kind of a person he was. She checked the impulse. Santa Clause was coming and the little girl was practically jumping out of his arms. Katherine waited until Santa passed, then she turned on her heel and strode away.
***
Bill Wilson and Chris Watkins, a political consultant, were on the road to Atlanta. Bill had the heater on, full blast. It wasn’t supposed to be this cold in November. Not in Virginia. They had departed after breakfast, leaving Richmond on I-95, they had turned onto 85, and they were now headed west.
As they approached the North Carolina line, they found themselves driving through the pine forest that covers most of the state. There were few other cars on the road, and the cruise control was set on eighty.
Bill was planning to run for Congress, and Chris was going to manage his campaign. Chris was from Boston, he had a good track record, and he came highly recommended. They would spend the weekend at a candidates’ “boot camp,” where Bill would learn the basics of mounting a campaign, and Chris would learn about Bill.
Bill was driving, sipping the coffee he had purchased at the service station outside of Petersburg. Chris was studying background material—an autobiography that Bill had composed, a statement of his political philosophy, and his outline of what he thought would be the primary issues in next year’s campaign.
“Why do you need an autobiography?” Bill asked.
“I need to know your background,” Chris replied. “I need to know what you think is important. I want to look for themes that we may use, bodies that may need to be buried.”
He smiled when he talked about the bodies, but Bill knew that he was serious. Chris had made it clear that he needed to know everything, good and bad. “We don’t want an illegitimate child appearing two weeks before the election,” he said. “Ten months out, we can deal with problems, but two weeks before, no way. So, any skeletons?” Chris asked, not looking up.
The Handfasting Page 16
