“It’s not the end of the world,” said Dad. “C’mon, I could catch that!” He seemed more concerned about football than nuclear devastation. “They’ll work something out, David,” he added. “They always do.” He turned off the TV and put his arm around my shoulders. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about football or nuclear disarmament. “I think we’ve waited long enough. It’s a good time to offer to help.”
Bao Bao stood up and wagged his tail.
Lucky dog, I thought. He didn’t have anything to worry about.
By the time we got back into the kitchen, the table was set. And when I say set, I mean, set with two complete and separate dinners.
The left side of the table was clearly Granny M’s dinner: turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, spiced apples, homemade bread, sweet potato soufflé, and green bean casserole. On the right side was Peking duck with plum sauce and handmade wrappers, egg rolls, a whole steamed fish, and a stir-fry of mixed vegetables. That was Wai Po’s.
Maybe this was going to be my last Thanksgiving dinner ever. Or anybody’s last Thanksgiving dinner. If it was in fact my last Thanksgiving, I supposed I wouldn’t want it any other way. I just hoped that they would get along, just this once, so I could have a happy memory.
Mr. Pickens smiled as he sat down and rubbed his hands together. “Well, look at that. It’s an East-meets-West Thanksgiving. I am a very fortunate man.”
Mr. Pickens just might be the key to my hopes for a peaceful Thanksgiving. It didn’t hurt that my mom seated him right between Wai Po and Granny M. He could be a buffer.
Mom sat down at the table last, even though it didn’t look like she got to cook anything on her menu. She took off her apron and pulled back her hair. “Why don’t you say the blessing over the Thanksgiving dinner, David,” she said.
Granny M didn’t miss a beat. “In Hebrew.”
“The turkey isn’t even kosher,” I said.
“It’s still good practice,” said my grandmother. She turned to Mr. Pickens. “David is having his bar mitzvah in January, so he needs to practice.”
“How wonderful,” said Mr. Pickens. “Knowing a second language is so important.” Granny M beamed in agreement.
What I really wanted to say was, Please, God, don’t let the Soviets or my grandmothers blow us up on Thanksgiving Day. But I didn’t know how to say that in Hebrew. The only specific food blessings I could say were for bread and wine. And then there’s the one that ends “shehakol nihiyah bed’varo,” which is supposed to cover a lot of the other stuff. We said it over candy at Hebrew school, so I figured that one would work. I also threw in tzipur, which is the Hebrew word for “bird” since we had two of them, the duck and the turkey.
“Gross,” said Lauren, who also knew the Hebrew word for bird. “I don’t want to think of it as a bird. I want to think of it as dinner.” She was wearing a button with a picture of Boy George, who was the lead singer for Culture Club. I thought she should have one for a band with a Thanksgiving theme, like the Eagles or America, but she didn’t like them.
“The Chinese word for Thanksgiving is gan en jie,” said Wai Po.
I guessed I’d better say something in Chinese, too. “Wo xihuan gan en jie,” I said. I like Thanksgiving. I was relieved to see Wai Po smile. So far, so good.
“I think we should all go around the table and say what we’re thankful for,” my mother said. This was one of her favorite traditions, even though it was awkward, year after year. “I am thankful that we can all be here, together, as a family. And that we can all remember how lucky we are.”
My dad went next. “I am thankful I don’t have to work until tonight so I can be here with all of you,” he said. My mother smiled. “And I’m thankful that the game is on TV.” My mother glared. His mother glared, too. “I am thankful for healthy children and that we have food on our table, and that today, at least, the world is at peace.” My mother smiled again, but Granny M cleared her throat, as though she was waiting for something. “I’m glad my mother is closer to us—physically. And I hope she knows she’s always been close in our hearts.”
My grandmother smiled. My dad had really figured her out over the years, which was a good thing. Then it was her turn.
“I’m thankful to be near my precious grandchildren, even though I am not in the bosom of the family and even if there’s no Waldbaum’s and I can’t find a decent bagel.”
I peeked over at Wai Po, and I swear she was smiling when Granny M said that.
“You’re around the corner,” my father said, and I thought maybe he hadn’t learned, because this was definitely the time to be quiet.
“That’s not the bosom,” Granny M said. “That’s an arm. Or an elbow.” She smiled like she was kidding, but she was showing too many teeth to be kidding.
Mr. Pickens coughed. Hearing Granny M talk about bosoms multiple times was probably as embarrassing for him as it was for me.
She changed the subject. Almost. “I’m glad we are all alive, when so many enemies have sought to destroy us.” That was a line from the Haggadah, which we read on Passover. “And I’m thankful my family survived the Holocaust.”
Mr. Pickens made these sympathetic clicking noises that old people make.
“I didn’t think any of our relatives were in the Holocaust,” Lauren said.
“Not direct relatives,” said Granny M. “Not my sister or my parents, thank God. But relatives. Aren’t I allowed to be thankful that they survived? And of course, I am thankful for my grandchildren, who are growing and blossoming before my very eyes. Or, at least, around the corner from my very eyes.”
Mr. Pickens said he was grateful to be spending Thanksgiving with neighbors. “And for all of this delicious food,” he said. “Without you, I would have only been grateful for a TV dinner.”
Wai Po nodded. Then she said: “I am thankful for Bao Bao. And all of you. I am thankful also for the survival of my own family, through difficult times, when we survived the Japanese occupation, when we fled the Communists and went to Taiwan. When I was a girl …” And she launched into a history lesson on China that started with the invention of paper and went through the Cultural Revolution.
Granny M looked at the ceiling and muttered, “My people know about difficult times, believe me.”
Wai Po stopped talking and looked at her as if Mr. Pickens’s head wasn’t even there. She gave the most forced smile in the history of the world. Granny M force-smiled back, right through Mr. Pickens. Technically, though, they were still getting along.
Before Wai Po could start talking again, Mom nudged Lauren to take her turn.
“I’m thankful there’s no school today and tomorrow,” she said. “I’m thankful for my family and my friends. And I’d be really thankful if someone bought me a—”
“This is not the time to talk about Hanukkah presents,” my mother said.
“I’m thankful for music,” Lauren said.
My mother smiled again and Granny M said, “So talented, my granddaughter.”
Mr. Pickens leaned forward and looked at Lauren’s button. “Is that a man wearing makeup? What strange times we live in.”
Lauren shrugged. “He’s a very good singer,” she said. “And it’s the song that’s important, not what he looks like.”
I had to admire Lauren for sticking up for Boy George.
Mom looked at me. “It’s your turn, David.”
“I already went,” I reminded her. “I said the first prayer.”
“But you didn’t say what you were thankful for.”
I thought about the things I was truly thankful for: I was thankful that Kelli Ann smelled like apple blossoms and that I wasn’t the slowest kid in my PE class and that I grew two inches over the summer and that my mom still put Little Debbie Snack Cakes in my lunch box even though I was in junior high. I was thankful we had won the school-wide trivia contest. I was thankful that my grandmothers hadn’t killed each other yet. I was thankful that the world hadn’t blown up, although
things weren’t looking good, so maybe I should really be thankful for the shelter Scott and I were building.
“I’m thankful for everyone here,” I said out loud. And then my eyes watered because I really was thankful for everyone.
“Is that all?” my mother said.
I tried not to think about the Soviets and missiles, but trying not to think of something was pretty much a guaranteed way to think of something. I nodded.
Finally, we were able to eat. You’d think that part would have been fine, since people were chewing.
Mr. Pickens probably thought Wai Po and Granny M were being polite, because to an untrained ear, they did sound as if they were being nice to each other. But I could hear what they were really saying.
Wai Po took a bite of Granny M’s mashed potatoes. “It’s very smooth,” she said. “You don’t even need teeth to eat this.” Translation: These potatoes have no texture. It’s like eating baby food.
“I’m actually one of those odd fellows that likes a lump or two in my potatoes,” said Mr. Pickens. “Makes me feel like it’s really homemade.”
Nobody laughed and I guess Mr. Pickens noticed, because he took a huge serving of turkey to make up for the fact that he wanted lumpy potatoes.
“Would you please pass the spiced apples?” asked Granny M. “I’ve loved them since I was a little girl.” Translation: I am not eating any Chinese food because it’s not traditional.
Mr. Pickens passed the apples. “Of course.” Translation: I have no idea I’m in the middle of the great Thanksgiving Table War of 1983.
Wai Po served Mr. Pickens some Peking duck. “Look at that,” said Mr. Pickens. “Nice and juicy.” He poked the duck with his fork.
“You are very kind,” said Wai Po. Translation: My food is getting compliments!
“Yes, I can’t believe how juicy that duck is, after it was hung up in the garage all day,” said Granny M. Translation: Food should not be hung up in a garage. It should be kept in a refrigerator. “Here, have some of my green bean casserole. It’s not Thanksgiving without my version.” She heaped a dollop of casserole on his plate, covering up most of the duck.
Mr. Pickens took a bite of the duck, followed quickly by the green beans. “They’re both delicious,” he announced. He glanced around the table and said, “I guess it’s a good thing my mother taught me to clean my plate.” He laughed, though I thought he sounded a little nervous.
“I’m going to give you the best part of this fish,” said Wai Po, adding a piece to Mr. Pickens’s plate. “No bones.”
“This bread is homemade,” said Granny M, sawing off a large slice. “I only make it for special occasions.”
Mr. Pickens worked his way through a slice of turkey, a slice of duck, a heap of green bean casserole, the bread, and the piece of fish. Just as his plate was almost empty, though, Wai Po added some stir-fried vegetables.
“For digestion,” she said. “Chinese vegetables are very good.”
“Apples are the best for digestion,” said Granny M, also putting some apples on Mr. Pickens’s plate.
Under the rules of good Chinese hosting, Wai Po was, technically, doing the right thing by not letting Mr. Pickens have an empty plate. I suspected, though, that she also wanted to show off as many dishes as she could. At the same time, Granny M was not going to let Mr. Pickens eat more Chinese food than her food. Mr. Pickens was trying to keep them both happy by eating all the food they piled on his plate, but he was never going to finish.
He picked up a forkful of apples like a condemned man.
“Did you have gravy with your turkey?” asked Granny M. “I don’t like to brag, but the cousin of a food magnate once said my gravy should be world famous.” She picked up the silver gravy boat and passed it to Mr. Pickens.
“The gravy is very important,” said Wai Po. “Since the turkey is so dry.”
Mom made a strangled noise and said something in Chinese.
“It’s a compliment!” insisted Wai Po. “I think Americans like their meat very dry, right?”
Mr. Pickens opened his mouth and closed it. There was no good way to answer this question. I jumped in.
“I like the turkey,” I said. I cut a generous bite of turkey and stuffed it in my mouth, and swallowed. Or tried to swallow. But something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right at all.
I looked around the table but everyone was still being perfectly normal. Except me. I couldn’t breathe.
I waved my arms like a duck and a turkey. No one looked in my direction. I couldn’t make the meat go down. I couldn’t make it come back up. Mom was talking to Wai Po, and Dad, Lauren, and Granny M were passing bowls of food around. Mr. Pickens was looking down at his plate. I felt like I was trapped under glass. My whole body sent out one message: AIR AIR AIR.
Was this going to be it for me? I’d avoid nuclear war because I choked to death on Thanksgiving dinner? I imagined the headline: DEAD TURKEY KILLS LOCAL BOY. What about my bar mitzvah? Kelli Ann? Who would Scott invite into the shelter to take my place?
Lauren gave me a funny look. Then she said: “Is David …”
Suddenly, I remembered something from health class last year. Save yourself. I gripped the edge of the table, and forced myself to stand up. I managed to make a tiny noise. Muh-muh-muh.
“He’s choking!” Mom yelled.
I felt like I was going to pass out. I spun the dining chair around, and rammed my gut onto the back of the chair to give myself the Heimlich maneuver. Instead, I jabbed myself in the ribs. I was about to do it again, but my dad grabbed me around the waist and positioned his fist above my bellybutton. He made a motion that was more of a squeeze than a punch. Something shot out of my mouth and bounced across the table. A cool rush of air filled my body. I never thought that breathing could feel like drinking, but those breaths felt like cold water after running a mile on a hot day.
Dad helped me sit down again. “Are you okay?” He stared into my eyes and grabbed my wrist for a pulse. My eyes were watering again, but I wasn’t crying.
“Is he going to be okay?” yelled Mom. She had somehow moved to the phone in the kitchen and I could hear a clear, nasally voice come over the other end. “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”
Mom waited for the all-clear signal from Dad, and then told the dispatcher that she thought I’d be okay, that I was choking but that the food had been “dislodged” and we had a registered nurse in the house who could vouch for me, and that she was sorry for disturbing them on a holiday. I took a gulp from a glass of water.
Mom walked back into the dining room. After giving me a hug and saying, “Oh, David,” she flopped into her chair.
Dad patted me on the back, like he used to when he was trying to get me to fall asleep. “Smaller bites, okay, David?” At times like this, I was glad Dad was a nurse, even if he didn’t pick up on the fact that I was choking right away. He knew how to make me feel like I was going to be all right.
“I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” I said.
“Why don’t we take a break and relax, and then have dessert in an hour?” said Mom. She folded her hands together and looked at me. “As if I needed a reminder to just be grateful that you’re here, Hon.”
For a moment, everyone was quiet, except for Mr. Pickens, who was still trying to catch up with all the food my grandmothers had heaped on his plate. I thought, This is probably what other people’s Thanksgivings felt like: being grateful for everyday things. Like breathing. And feeling peaceful and surrounded by people you loved, including two crazy grandmothers.
It’s all going to be okay, I thought. As long as we’re together and remember what’s important in life. All we needed was a little reminder to take care of one another.
Then Wai Po said, “Don’t feel bad, Marjorie, that David choked on your dry meat. It is a wonder everybody is not choking to death.”
“Do I look as though I feel bad?” said Granny M. “I’m more concerned about that duck, being made in the garage of
all places. But don’t worry about that now. Thank goodness my Ben saved him.”
Their words sounded like they should be nice, don’t feel bad, don’t worry, but they weren’t. They were fighting without fighting, which was worse than open hostility in my book. Instead of focusing on the miracle of life and the importance of making the most of these uncertain times, they were using my near-death experience to bicker.
“Let’s just be grateful that everything is okay,” said Dad. He turned to Mr. Pickens. “Don, shall we go check the scores on TV?”
Mr. Pickens looked green. “I think I may have to head home,” said Mr. Pickens, even though he had not cleaned his plate. “I promised my son I’d give him a call. Thanks so much, Ben. Natalie.” He smiled at my parents and looked around for his jacket.
“But you haven’t had dessert yet!” protested Granny M.
“We both made desserts,” said Wai Po.
“You could have coffee,” said Granny M.
“Or tea,” added Wai Po.
“May I have my jacket?” Mr. Pickens pleaded with my dad.
“Don’t go yet,” said Granny M.
“Stay longer,” ordered Wai Po. It was the first thing they’d agreed on all day.
“I think I need some fresh air,” I told Mom. She looked skeptical, so I added, “I’ll take Bao Bao out.” I whistled for him.
“Oh, I need to let out my dog, too!” said Mr. Pickens, inching toward the door. “Poor Rocky. I don’t like to leave him for very long.”
Both grandmothers reluctantly agreed that this was a good reason to let Mr. Pickens leave.
“Let me wrap you up some dessert, at least,” my mother said. “You can take it with you.”
My grandmothers practically ran to the kitchen to get equal servings of dessert wrapped in aluminum foil. They packed up some extra turkey for Rocky, too. Mr. Pickens clutched his packets and flew out the door.
I decided not to tell anyone that Mr. Pickens’s dog died last year.
Mom made Lauren go with me and Bao Bao, “just in case,” which was fine. I’m not sure what she was worried about, since everyone had witnessed that the piece of turkey was no longer stuck in my throat. It’s not like I was going to have a relapse. Lauren pulled on her headphones and began singing along to Kajagoogoo, a band she didn’t even have a button for yet. Her singing was actually pretty good, but I motioned for her to take off her headphones.
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