I was happy to relax and enjoy the food, but my father couldn’t let me be. After he’d picked the next wine, he attempted to make conversation with me. “So you paid for your college yourself,” he stated.
“I got scholarships—a swimming scholarship and then a physics scholarship,” I answered.
His eyebrows shot up. “They give scholarships for physics?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, believe it or not, they do sometimes give aid to students who go to college to learn.”
He snorted. “What do you intend to do with a…physics degree?”
I was about to lay into him with a diatribe about how all endeavors don’t have to maximize profit, but was saved from committing what would surely be both an awkward and wasted observation—Dad only understood profit—by the next course, a salad. Not just any salad, but a veritable fall harvest explosion of apples, nuts, fennel, and field greens. This time the servers didn’t even give junior a chance to object; he got an artfully arranged plate of apple slices.
The salad was good despite its cliched nature. It distracted Dad enough that he forgot to continue disapproving of my major—like he had any right to do that. I had paid my entire way myself. I could major in anything that I damn well pleased. Once his salad was finished he turned back to Mom and had her giggling like a teenager and twirling her hair. The snake. We shouldn’t have come.
Finally the actual turkey dinner came. When my grandmother had been alive, Thanksgiving Dinner consisted of mounds of mostly starches—mashed potatoes, dressing, cranberry sauce, and sweet potatoes, with hunks of dried out turkey smothered in gravy to get it down. The plate the servers set before me technically was composed of the same ingredients, but the similarities stopped there. My plate at the Chemical Club had three thin, perfectly cooked slices of turkey fanned out on the left side of the plate on top of a smear of cranberry sauce. The right side of plate held a hockey-puck-shaped mound of dressing sprinkled with parsley, a swirl of chantilly potatoes shining with butter, and a splash of gravy. The bottom of the plate sported rounds of sweet potato decorated with pecans and maple syrup and a dollop of braised swiss chard. The food was delicious, but somehow left you wanting. The wives politely complimented the food and daintily picked at their plate mostly avoiding the carbs like the plague. I snarfed the entire plate as quickly as I could, burped, and loudly announced to everyone in the room, “I’ve had better.” Three said something snippy about how men could eat whatever they wanted. Mom gave me a dirty look, but “Dad” laughed out loud.
Since we had finally had turkey, I figured I could slip out …maybe catch a cab or walk. I was up for a twenty mile stroll, but then the dessert course came. Naturally it was actually three miniature desserts—a small round pumpkin cheese cake, an apple tartlet with a molded ice cream wreath, and a slice of pecan pie adorned with whipped cream and drizzles of chocolate—all artfully arranged on a gold rimmed plate. I couldn’t help it. I rearranged the desserts so that the pie pointed at dear old “Dad” and the tartlet and cheesecake sat on either side of the wide end of the wedge making a juvenile approximation of male genitalia. Hunter noticed and started giggling hysterically—his voice cracking and reaching a pitch just barely discernible by human ears. “Dad” looked around to see what the fuss was about and noticed my plate. He looked at it quizzically at first and then started laughing--big belly shaking guffaws. “Good one, son!” Two looked over and literally clutched the pearls at her neck. Even her outrage was contrived. Three’s eyes got wide as she clued in. Junior continued to wolf down his dessert—oblivious. Mom gave me an irritated sideways look. I cut off the pointy half of the pecan pie and stuffed it my mouth. That really got my dad laughing. His eyes started tearing up, and he clapped me on the back. Then he was coughing and wheezing and turning a bit blue. My mother got a terrified look on her face, but some guy swooped in from out of no where and slapped an oxygen mask on Dad. He sucked in oxygen like a dying man for a few minutes, before turning back to his regular ruddy complexion and breathing normally. After a few more minutes he ripped off the oxygen mask and waved off the guy who brought it. Oxygen guy melted into the background. I wondered if oxygen guy was Dad’s guy, or just some service the Chemical Club supplied for all the old codgers rich enough to have a membership.
Dad cleared his throat and announced a bit weakly for him, “Just a bit of excitement to liven things up.” He waved at the table. “Eat, eat, we don’t want this to go to waste.” Two and Three pushed their plates in the direction of their offspring who tucked into the second helpings. I scarfed up the rest of my desserts. They were good even if they were trite and soulless, and, after all, I had specific instructions not to let good food go to waste.
After the dessert plates were cleared, we all stared at each other for a minute. My mother started pushing back her chair and announcing, “I guess we’ll be going Trace.”
Dad waved his hand as if pushing her back in her chair. “Wait just a second,” he mumbled. He shoved at the table and gave the head waiter an irritated look. The waiter hurriedly grabbed the back of his chair and helped him push back from the table, but he didn’t get up. “Trace, come say good bye to your old man,” he yelled a little too enthusiastically. Three cocked her head to the side and then the light bulb went off. “Oh!” she exclaimed and started fumbling for her purse. Guess she thought of her son as junior too. She dumped him out of his chair and straightened his little tie and brushed his bangs aside with her fingers. Then pushed him toward Dad. Even though he and his mom had moved out less than a year ago, Junior was already afraid of Dad. He hid his face in his mother’s skirt. She pasted a pained smile on her face and took tiny steps in Dad’s direction thus forcing her son that way as well. She stopped about three feet from Dad, carefully crouched down in her five-inch Jimmy Choos to bring her face-to-face with her son, and then said to him, “Say goodbye to your father like I showed you.” Junior bravely turned from his mother’s skirt, a bit teary-eyed, and stuck out his hand. Dad solemnly took his hand and shook it. Junior snatched his hand away and tried to bury his head in hid mother’s skirt again, but she had already sidled up to Dad. “Brittany,” stated Dad as she bent over to hug him. She also attempted to kiss him on the mouth, but Dad turned his head and instead she gave him a peck on the cheek trying to make it look like that was her intention all along. “Goodbye Brittany, Trace,” my father said a bit seriously and then dismissed them with a nod. Three took Junior’s hand and headed toward the door. Half way there, she turned back and prepared to say something, but Dad had already summoned Hunter to the head of the table.
Like Junior, Hunter presented his hand and gave Dad a firm shake and delivered his clearly rehearsed line, “Thank you for dinner.” Dad answered with “your welcome,” and attempted to engage him in conversation. “So you’re in what grade now?”
“Eighth,” Hunter replied a bit sullenly. He hadn’t expected to interact with Dad.
“How’s that going?” asked Dad.
“Fine,” answered Hunter.
Two interjected, “Really well. He makes straight As. And Regents is a very competitive school.”
“Good, good,” replied Dad and turned to Two, “How are you, Victoria?”
“I’m well. Quite well,” Victoria nodded then leaned in to hug Dad and give him a kiss on the cheek.
“Good. I’m glad you’re well Victoria.”
“Thank you for a lovely Thanksgiving,” she added.
“Of course, you’re welcome. Goodbye Victoria, Hunter,” Dad nodded to them solemnly in turn.
“Goodbye Trace,” answered Two. Hunter just waved, and they both turned toward the door leaving Mom and me alone with him.
Like my siblings before me, I stuck out my hand. “Goodbye.”
Dad took my hand and pulled me down for a hug, then he patted my back. “You’ll do okay,” he pronounced.
“Okay?…” I answered a bit confused—I wasn’t looking for his approval--and stepped back.
Da
d opened his arms and acknowledged my mother, “Candi.”
“Trace,” she replied and bent down to hug him. He held her face between his hands, stared into her eyes, and laid a big kiss on her lips. She responded enthusiastically. Really? I turned away, embarrassed. I didn’t think it was at all appropriate for my middled-aged mother to suck face with my geriatric father in public, so I headed for the door. I became very interested in the view while they made out and talked quietly for a few more minutes. Finally Mom picked up her purse and headed in my direction. Dad nodded and waved at me. I got in the elevator with Mom and waved back as the elevator doors closed.
As soon as the doors closed, I glared at her. “Really, Mom, Really!”
“ What?” She gave me a peevish shoulder shrug. “I deserve a little action. I’m sure you get plenty of action with your cute brainiac,” she added defensively.
“First,” I held up one finger. “Whatever “action” I get, I get in private. PRIVATE.” I held up two fingers. “Second, I’m not getting action with the asshole that left me a destitute, single mother.” I pointed to my third finger and waved it at her. “You’ve had plenty of opportunity to get action with nice men. Men who were clearly interested in you. Attractive men. Tall men. Men close to your age. You turned them all down. You’ve got to get down with the one guy you know you have no, none, zilch future with because you have an awful past with him. Don’t give him anything you don’t have to—just like he treated you.”
“He apologized.”
“Too little, too late.”
“I think he wants to get back together.” She fairly glowed with anticipation.
“He’s not getting back together with you. And why would you want him anyway. He’s old and washed up. He couldn’t even stand up after dinner. He’s just feeling his own mortality and wants to assuage his guilt about how he treated you—us. Don’t give him the satisfaction.” I turned away from her disgusted especially since I could see her in the mirrored wall of the elevator tapping her foot, humming, and smiling.
B.D.
Mom had planned the saddest Thanksgiving Dinner ever, but Veronica and I put our foot down. Just because we all missed Dad didn’t mean we couldn’t have a real Thanksgiving feast for three. Like every year, we got out Mom’s wedding china—Lenox Celebration. We also polished the silver—Gorham Buttercup. Finally we set the dining room table with Mom’s white damask table cloth and gold napkins. The centerpiece was a cornucopia spilling out fake fruit and vegetables—like every year. We roasted a turkey breast, made Grandma’s secret recipe dressing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and gravy made from a packet. Like every year, we said grace then each person at the table said what they were grateful for. I was grateful for the opportunity to work in a lab with with a truly innovative researcher and my family. Mom said she was grateful for spending Thanksgiving with most of the family she had left—a little whiny for an expression of gratitude, but okay. And Veronica pointedly looked at me and said that she was grateful for her fabulous boots and was sure she would have other footwear to be grateful for in the future. I rolled my eyes. Whatever.
Then we fell to the feasting. I made sure I put the cranberry sauce right in front of my plate when we put the food on the table, so I got a big helping. Then I passed the food across the table to Veronica. We both had to really stretch across the table, but we dutifully passed each dish around the table. I tried not to glance at Dad’s empty place. I thought about setting his place and making a joke about the messiah, but figured that wouldn’t go over too well. As we ate, we tried to make conversation.
“How’s this year’s crop of kindergartners?” I asked.
“Much better than last year’s, or maybe I’m just getting used to teaching again,” she answered with a nervous titter. “We made hand print turkeys with feathers and everyone but Leo managed to write their name and not get paint on their clothes. Leo still hasn’t learned to write his name. I may have to get him tested. Last year, only five students could write their names legibly. And they picked such interesting colors for their turkeys. Larissa did her’s all in maroon and orange. And her mother came to the little party we had, and she was so proud to give her the turkey. The kids this year are just adorable.” She stared off wistfully and sighed.
I turned to Veronica,” So how’s school going for you?”
“Oh, you know, fine. I’ve Kroptik for chemistry.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s such a jerk. He’s just trying to work it out so I get a C, just because I caught my fingernail polish on fire in the lab. I didn’t do it on purpose. And I managed to put it out, but the principal was there when it happened and he accused Kroptik of being lax about safety, so now he has it out for me.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure he doesn’t have it out for you.”
“He does!” she insisted. “He counted off ten points from my last lab because the sheet was “messy.” “ She used air quotes.
“Was it messy?”
“A little,” she answered defensively. “I didn’t want to use another piece of paper—you know doing my part for the environment-- so I just wrote the data in the margins of the lab sheet, and just calculated the final results in my head—which he didn’t believe—and I forgot about it until lunch, so of course, I had to do it during lunch, and I got a tiny dribble of sloppy joes on it.”
“So it was messy.”
“Yeah, but he’s never counted off for that before. Pass the gravy.”
“You can’t turn in homework with food on it.” I stretched across the table with the gravy, but my hands were greasy, and the gravy boat started to slip. Before Veronica could grab it, it squirted out of my hand, across the table, and straight into Dad’s chair. It smashed against his chair leaving a greasy, disgusting pile of instant gravy and broken wedding china. We all stared at the mess in a stunned silence for a few breathes before Mom burst in to tears and ran out of the room.
“Way to go genius,” sneered Veronica.
I hopped up from the table, “Go try and make Mom feel better. I’ll clean it up.” With grim determination we both trudged off to our tasks.
*
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other as I waited on the porch for David to pick me up Saturday afternoon. We decided to leave Saturday to miss the traffic, but also because David had to open the tutoring center at noon on Sunday. I might have forgotten to mention my early departure to Mom mostly because I wanted to minimize contact between David and my family to save embarrassment and awkwardness all around. Now that it was clear we were dating, Mom was bound to ask something antiquated like what David’s intentions were and Veronica would needle him about more swag from the sample closet. It was best if I minimized David’s exposure to my family. Since his mother was beautiful, sophisticated and in possession of some serious social skills, he didn’t understand how embarrassing most people’s families were for them. I just hoped that the traffic gods would contrive to waylay my family searching for post-black Friday deals while letting David through. I bobbed up and down trying to burn off some of my anxiety-born excess energy.
After a few more agonizing minutes of waiting, David rounded the corner and parked in the driveway. I tossed my bag in the back seat and buckled in before David could even get his door open.
He gave me a suspicious look, “in a hurry?”
“No, no…” I replied innocently. “I just didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
“Really, that’s so considerate of you. I really couldn’t afford to wait the minute it would have taken me to get out of car, walk to your door, and ring your door bell.”
I laughed. “Mom and Veronica went shopping, so it was just as easy to wait on the porch.”
“If you say so,” he answered while giving me a sideways look.
As David merged onto I-10, he cleared his throat and said in what I had come to think of as his checklist voice, “The Christmas Party is in three weeks.”
“What Christmas Party?” I asked innocently.
>
“THE Christmas Party—the Physics Society Christmas Party. The one that anyone who is anyone in Physics will be at. The ultimate networking party. That Christmas Party.”
“Oh, that Christmas Party.”
“Yes, that one. And it’s black tie,” David stated because apparel is always item one on the checklist. “I’ve got an Armani tuxedo that I was planning on wearing, but you’ve got more choices.”
“Are you jealous of women and their fashion choices, David?”
He chuckled. “No, it’s nice to know that I’ll always be wearing black because I look great in black. Besides it leaves me free to experiment on you.”
I must have looked outraged, because he immediately backpedaled. “Just kidding. But you do have choices. You still have that silver dress that Mom pulled for you in September, right? She also sent this burgundy number for you to consider.” He nodded at the back seat. I glanced into the back and hanging from the clothes hook behind his seat was a full-length burgundy dress that looked more like layers of folded fabric than a dress.
“Mom said that it doesn’t look that good on the hanger, but it looks great on except that you might find it a bit “gappy.” That was the word she used, “gappy.” She sent me with some special tape so that you can tape the dress where you want and it doesn’t…you know…gap.” David glanced down at where the possible gap would be I.e. my breasts and then actually blushed. I laughed.
“Wendy’s used some of that stuff on me before. Sometimes gravity doesn’t want my clothes to fit right, so technology must be employed.”
“Uh, yeah…Mom thinks the dress will look fantastic on you, but she also thought you might not have appropriate…uh…foundation garments, so she sent some solutions for that as well.” More blushing, what’s with these foundation garments? He continued on, “She said to wear the silver strappy sandals with either dress, and she sent a silver Valentino clutch to go with both of them. She usually can’t get her hands on bags, because they get snapped up first, but she managed to snag this one.”
Waves and Light: Opposites Attract Series Page 18
