“And you’re majoring in journalism, Bailey?” Eric’s mother asked. You couldn’t blame her for thinking it.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted.
“Bailey is an excellent writer,” declared my boyfriend, as if someone at the table had accused me of being a lousy speller with poor penmanship.
Roni cleared her throat. “Doesn’t anybody want to know what I’m majoring in? ” She waited a beat, while nobody ventured a guess. “Fashion.”
I laughed. Alone.
The table broke up into separate conversations until Mr. Strang raised his voice. “Where’s dinner?” He glanced around for the first waiter in sight. “You, there! We have tickets to the opera. A little service, please? ”
Suddenly I felt homesick. I missed Adam and Eve. And I missed Mom. I hated thinking of her alone on the real Thanksgiving. “Will you all excuse me for a minute? ”
I got up, and so did all the men at the table.
In the ladies’ room, I fished out my cell and dialed Mom. Nobody answered. I let it ring and ring and imagined Adam and Eve barking at the phone. I tried Mom’s cell. Voice mail clicked on immediately. I stumbled through a message about having a great time and wishing she were here.
I hit Amber’s number next. Her cell must have been off, so I texted her and then dialed her home number. Amber’s mother answered on the second ring. “Yel-low.” Her hellos had always sounded like the color yellow. I loved that. Amber’s parents were older than our friends’ parents. Amber had been a surprise.
“Hey. This is Bailey. Am I disturbing your Thanksgiving dinner? ”
“Bailey! We’re just getting to the pumpkin pie. Want me to put your mother on? ”
“Mom’s there? ”
“She’s reaching for the phone right now. Happy Thanksgiving, honey.”
There was a scuffling sound. Then Mom got on. “Bailey? How did you track me down? Amber only talked me into coming over here at the last minute. How are you? Are they being nice to you? ”
“Hi, Mom. I didn’t track you. I called home and you weren’t there, so I was calling Amber. I’m okay. I’m at a country club. And yes. They’re nice.”
“Guess what! Amber’s mom promised to help me make stuffing for our Thanksgiving dinner. So we’ll have real food. How ’bout that? ”
We talked a little while. Then I wished Amber a Happy Thanksgiving. Finally, I knew I had to go.
I repinned my hair and walked back to the table, prepared to apologize for being gone so long. But nobody said anything to me. I don’t think they noticed I was gone. Everybody had drinks and funny-shaped hors d’oeuvres on their plates.
Eric seated me, but he was deep in conversation with his mother. “It really sounds like frozen shoulder, except I have full range of motion. I was thinking it might be coccidioidomycosis. Remember? I told you about that. Except it comes from spores in the desert, and I haven’t been to Palm Springs since that golfing thing last year with Dad.” He rubbed his shoulder.
Secretly, I wanted Eric to drop microbiology. I hated seeing him worry so much when he didn’t have to. Amber said teens who worry too much about their health could become full-fledged hypochondriacs and suffer their whole lives. “Maybe you just slept on it funny,” I suggested, patting Eric’s shoulder.
Roni laughed, spraying a mouthful of whatever she was drinking.
“Oh, Ronisetta,” her mother said, not hiding her disgust with her daughter. “Are you ever going to grow up? ”
Roni stood up. “Not here.” She recovered her boa from the floor. “I’ll take a taxi back to Gram’s. You can give my opera ticket to a grown-up.” She turned to me and smiled. “Happy Thanksgiving, Bailey.”
Nobody said a word about Roni or her exit after she was gone. I felt awful for her. I wanted to run after her, but I didn’t know what I would have said.
Conversation picked up where it had left off, and I couldn’t stand it. “Eric?” I said, interrupting him as he was explaining health.com’s top three viruses for the holiday season. “Do you think Roni’s okay? ”
He squeezed my hand. “Roni can take care of herself.”
He was right. But I still wished she hadn’t left.
The meal was fantastic, roast duckling and salmon. There wasn’t any turkey, but it was a great dinner. “Can we dance now? ” I begged Eric. “Do they ever play anything faster? ”
He laughed, took my hand, and led me to the dance floor. I couldn’t wait to be in his arms—all legal and everything, even with the whole Strang clan looking on. I loved slow dancing with the right guy, and Eric was definitely the right guy. We were the first couple on the dance floor, but two older couples followed suit. I put my arms around Eric’s neck and snuggled in close.
“This is a waltz,” Eric said, taking my hands and placing one around his waist and one out to the side. Every other guy I’d slow danced with had pretty much just held me and rocked back and forth.
“I don’t know how to waltz, Eric.”
“Just follow my lead.”
I tried. He counted for me: “One, two, three. One, two, three.” I managed to keep up with him and not fall down. And I think I got better by the end of the song—Eric said I did. But neither of us wanted to try it again. I promised myself I would learn to waltz with the best of them.
That night we went to the opera, and I pretended to like it, even though it was all I could do to stay awake.
Friday I woke up before dawn, showered, dressed, packed, and tiptoed down the hall to tap on Eric’s door. He squinted out, his hair a mess, one side of his face wrinkly from sleep. I’d never been more attracted to him. I leaned in and kissed his sleepy head. He felt cuddly. “Happy Thanksgiving,” I whispered.
Eric and I got a late start for Millet because his mother insisted we wait and have breakfast with Grandmother Strang, who chose to sleep in. I thought about inviting Roni to come home with us, but she hadn’t come out of her room, and Eric said not to disturb her.
It was almost noon by the time Eric and I headed out for Millet.
When we got close, I directed Eric onto the old highway so we’d go past the town instead of fast-food row off the Interstate. “I’ll bet you’ve never even seen the old town of Millet, have you?”
“I’ve driven by it.”
“That’s where I went to school!” I shouted, rolling down the window and pointing. A black dog was lifting his leg to a tree out front, and I couldn’t help remembering little Adam the first day I saw him. And Went. “I think I fell in love for the first time right there.” I felt so close to Eric. I wanted to tell him about Went, to share with him all I’d learned about love since then. Eric and I hadn’t said the words yet, but I knew in my heart we loved each other.
Eric stared straight ahead. “So, have you heard back from Mizzou yet? ”
“Man, talk about changing the subject.”
He smiled over at me. “Sorry. I’d just rather talk about college than junior high or middle school, okay? ”
“Eric, are you jealous of my first love? Because it was a long time ago and—”
“Don’t be silly. It just doesn’t matter now. Why go there? I’m sure you don’t want me to bore you with stories about my old girlfriends, right? ”
“I guess.” He was right about my not wanting to hear about his exes, but it wasn’t because I’d be bored.
“You and I, we’re all about the future, Bailey.” He reached over and squeezed my knee.
We passed the corner where Went and I had our first kiss. Then we turned onto Ukulele Lane.
Eve came running out at the car, barking. “Eve!” I shouted, remembering when I’d spotted the spotted dog for the first time and mistaken her for the firehouse Dotty. An image of Mitch sprang to mind. It wasn’t that I needed to tell Eric the juicy details of my past. But not being able to tell him anything made my throat burn. I was afraid I was going to cry. Maybe the pressure of meeting his parents, of not being home on Thanksgiving—all of it had finally hit me. I was ju
st tired.
Eric was probably right. Being part of his future, our future, was really all that mattered.
9
It was still daylight, but Mom had every light in the house on, plus all the outside Christmas lights—red, green, blue, and orange. “Just pull into the driveway,” I told Eric.
“I won’t be blocking the garage? ” He turned in, but kept the motor running.
“We never park in our garage,” I explained, fumbling with my seat belt. I couldn’t wait to see Mom and the dogs.
Eric followed me at snail’s speed while I ran inside, with Eve barking at my heels. “Mom! We’re here!”
Mom came running out in her jeans and Missouri Tigers sweatshirt. She screamed and threw up her arms. I screamed and threw up mine, as if I’d been gone two years instead of two nights. We hugged and danced and yelled, “Happy Thanksgiving!” Adam and Eve galloped around the living room, barking and vying for my attention.
“How are my babies? I’ve missed you!” I dropped to the ground and let them pounce on me. Then I remembered Eric. He was still standing in the doorway. “Sorry! Kind of got carried away.”
Mom walked over and gave my boyfriend a giant hug. “Happy Thanksgiving, Eric. I’m so glad you guys made it.”
“Sorry we couldn’t really be here on Thanksgiving,” Eric said.
“Why, whatever are you talking about, Eric? ” Mom shrugged at me. “This is a silly, silly man you’ve brought home with you for Thanksgiving dinner, Bailey Daley. Didn’t you tell him that time is relative? ”
I could barely speak because I was still dodging licks from Adam and Eve. “Time is relative, Eric.”
We ordered pizza for dinner because Mom and I couldn’t imagine our oven being responsible for meals two days in a row. The three of us sat in the kitchen to wait for the pizza man.
“Might as well get started on tomorrow’s meal,” Mom said. She walked to the fridge and pulled out a giant plastic-wrapped turkey.
I couldn’t believe the size of that bird. “Wow, Mom! How much does that thing weigh? ”
Mom grunted as she slid the monster fowl into the sink and tried to read its tag. “Um . . . I think he weighs twenty-six pounds, four ounces.”
“Twenty-six pounds?” Eric asked. “Who else is coming for dinner tomorrow? ”
“Just Amber, far as I know,” Mom said.
“But—? ”
“Mom always cooks a giant turkey and then gives most of it away to shut-ins and the homeless,” I explained.
“Why are you taking it out now? ” Eric asked. “Is that safe? ”
Mom pointed her wooden spoon at Eric. “You are a smart young man. You may date my daughter.” She turned back to the turkey. “I’m cooking Tom overnight.”
“That’s how Mom always does it,” I added.
“And—not to worry—I set the oven thingy high enough so we don’t all die of salmonella disease,” Mom explained, “but low enough so I won’t burn down the house.”
“That’s reassuring,” Eric said, not sounding all that reassured.
“Mom, don’t joke about a thing like that. It’s not funny.”
Mom looked stunned. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice a mix of surprise and confusion.
I hadn’t meant to sound like I was scolding her, but I didn’t want Eric to worry.
Mom had the bird in the oven before the pizza guy got there. We devoured the pizza in short order and played a few rounds of three-handed poker. Eric lost every game.
“Good move bringing a guy who’s such easy pickin’s at the poker table, Bailey,” Mom said, raking in a pile of poker chips. We only played for chips, no money.
“Well,” Eric said, joking back with her as he got up from the table, “you card sharks can play all night. As for me, I’m cashing in my chips and hittin’ the hay.”
“I thought you said this fella had culture, young’un,” Mom said.
“You know the only real culture comes from . . .” I began.
“Bacteria!” Mom and I said together. It was an old, old joke, but we were always there together at the punch line. Then I wished we hadn’t been. All Eric needed was another reminder about bacteria.
Eric went to bed in my old room, and I bunked in with Mom. We stayed up most of the night talking and laughing, then shushing each other so we wouldn’t wake poor Eric. The dogs loved it. We let them try to sleep with us in our bed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bunked in with Mom. Probably when I was little and scared of storms.
In the morning I made myself get up early with Mom to check on Tom. The whole house smelled glorious, like only Thanksgiving morning can. It took both of us to lift the roaster out of the oven, fighting off Adam and Eve, who must have been going crazy from the aroma of real food. They scratched at my legs and whimpered.
“No way this bird is under thirty pounds,” I declared as we struggled to set the pan on the counter.
Eric came out to the kitchen, wearing cotton pajamas that looked like he’d ironed them. Mom and I had sweats and T-shirts. He yawned, and again his hair was all messy, and he had that sleep wrinkle on one side of his face. He looked so cute I had to go over and kiss him. “Morning, you.”
He hugged me and kissed me again. “Morning, you. How’s our friend Tom? ”
“He got a little sick overnight,” Mom called from the roasting pan. “Something about salmonella. He seems okay now, though.”
“Not funny, Mom,” I scolded, for real this time.
“She’s just kidding. You know that,” I whispered to Eric. I led him to the table and poured him a glass of juice. I imagined doing this every day of our lives, pouring my husband a glass of orange juice and getting a big morning hug and kiss.
Slow down,I told myself. He hasn’t even asked you to the prom.
We hadn’t slept together either—not that we hadn’t wanted to. We’d get to that point where I felt I could get carried away. Then I’d stop us, or Eric would. We never talked about it, but I think we had an understanding. And anyway, Eric wasn’t like other guys I’d dated. He had the money to take me to concerts and movies and things. So we had less car make-out time. The few parties we’d been to weren’t the hang-out-and-make-out kind. Eric’s friends were too classy for that.
“Tom smells good,” Eric said bravely. “What time is dinner? ”
“Whenever we get the food ready.” I got out a stick of butter and ran it over the bird’s back. “This is one of my very few kitchen skills.”
Eric dressed up for our Thanksgiving dinner like he had for his family’s. Since I didn’t want him to feel overdressed, I dressed nice too, for me—slinky black pants and my new blouse. And I wore my hair up because Eric had loved it when I wore it up for the country club dinner.
“What’s with the hair?” Amber asked, appearing in the kitchen in jeans and a Mizzou sweatshirt she’d picked up last summer.
“And Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Amber,” I returned.
“That too,” she agreed, still staring at my lofty hairdo.
Mom had all she could handle remembering to take side dishes—most of them ready-made—from the microwave.
“Love the dishes,” Amber said, shaking out the jellied cranberries from the can onto a little plate with a turkey in the center. Mom had a whole set of turkey tableware she’d won in a contest.
“Where’d you get the centerpiece? ” I asked. The ceramic turkey, occupying a square foot of space on the table, was pretty hard to miss.
“Garage sale,” Mom answered.
We sat at the table, and Mom had us hold hands. I remembered so many Thanksgivings when Mom and I were the only two people at the table. We’d sat across from each other and held hands like this anyway. It wasn’t that nobody had invited the single mom and daughter for Thanksgiving dinner. We’d wanted to have it ourselves. Sometimes we’d invite people we figured didn’t have anywhere to go, like Old Ollie, who came in his farm overalls. Or Mrs. Jannis, the old maid third-grade teacher who hat
ed me, and the feeling was mutual.
“We have a lot to be thankful for this year,” Mom began, squeezing my hand.
I squeezed Eric’s hand and smiled up at him. He looked like that deer in the headlights everybody talks about. Then I realized that his family hadn’t said grace before meals. Now that I thought about it, their table conversation veered clear of anything controversial—no politics, no religion. And here we were, holding hands and ready to talk, not just about God, but to God. I wished I could have read Eric’s mind. Or maybe not . . .
“Let’s tell God and each other thanks for all the blessings this Thanksgiving. I’ll start.” Mom listed all of us by name, Amber’s family, our dogs, her new job, Eric’s family, her friend Sarah Jean, and the family of robins that had nested on our ledge.
Amber named a lot of the same people Mom had and added Travis—he’d stayed in touch from Mizzou—plus her job as editor of Tri-County Rag,our school paper.
I gave thanks for Eric and Mom and Amber, for Adam and Eve, for Eric’s family, and for our senior year.
When it was Eric’s turn, he cleared his throat. “Thank you for the blessings which you have bestowed and this meal you have put before us, along with the hands that prepared it.”
It was a typical Daley Thanksgiving dinner, with Mom popping up every two minutes because she’d left potatoes, or beans, or gravy in the microwave. Or I’d get up and grab the butter out of the fridge or let the dogs out. Ours was a noisy feast. I hoped it wasn’t too much for Eric.
At one point I caught Eric staring at my mother as she assembled her “Thanksgiving sandwich” without missing a beat in her conversation with Amber on freedom of the press versus investigative reporting of the school superintendent’s DUI.
I felt I needed to explain Mom’s sandwich. “Mom hates turkey.”
“You’re kidding?” Eric frowned as Mom took a big bite of her unique sandwich. “Then why—? ”
“She says it just wouldn’t be Thanksgiving if she didn’t eat turkey,” I explained. “So she puts the whole dinner between two dinner rolls—turkey, a heap of stuffing, potatoes, gravy, beans, a little cranberry sauce. And voilà! A Thanksgiving sandwich. And that she loves.”
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