THURSDAY NOVEMBER 22, 2007
SHE WOKE EARLY AND STUFFED the turkey while the pumpkin pie baked. The boys left to help Edgar feed and water the chickens and hogs.
“Bring in extra firewood, and remind Edgar we’re eating at three.”
The table was set for five, with Mother’s ceramic cornucopia the centerpiece. She placed an extra plate and silverware on the buffet, brought in a folding chair from the shed and leaned it against the wall and hung her apron. In the bedroom, she fussed with her hair, tried on the navy sweater, then the off-white. The pants with the side zipper were the most flattering. She fluffed the couch pillows, straightened the painting above the buffet, and plucked the dry leaves off the geranium. When the pie came out, the turkey went in and by one o’clock the entire house smelled of juices running and skin browning. Time to whip the cream. She opened the front door and listened, and set the beaters to whirring.
She greeted Edgar with a brief hug and spoke loudly into his better ear and he nodded as if he’d heard and understood. Ginny helped carry the platters and bowls to the table, setting the stuffing in front of Dee. Scott carved. At the last minute Lee Ann remembered the cranberry sauce still in the fridge, and holding it in both hands, paused in the doorway before returning to the dining room. Scott pulled back her chair.
He said, “Let’s skip grace.”
“No,” Dee said. “I’ll say it.” He bowed his head and Ginny did the same.
“Lord, on this day of thanksgiving, we wish to express our gratitude for this meal. We send our thoughts and prayers to those who aren’t with us today. Amen.”
Scott forked turkey onto plates, dishes were passed and compliments offered, with a toast to the chef.
Before dessert, Lee Ann excused herself to take the dogs some scraps, which they lapped up with two licks of their tongues. They accompanied her along the well-worn garden path and stopped at the fence, at which point they were not permitted entrance. Clouds thin as gauze passed in front of the moon. She fumbled with the gate and walked southward, away from the house, between the hard, dry rows. He did not miss her, did not miss home, could celebrate Thanksgiving elsewhere, eat some other woman’s food, sleep in a strange bed, alone, did not care if she got chilled at night, or stressed during the day, if the place fell apart, if she fell apart.
At the end of the row, she turned. The dining room and kitchen lights shone yellow-white. The muted dirt road dipped to the creek and the tin roof of the barn, reflecting moonlight, seeming to float like a giant raft in space. Mother’s house and the weeping willow were barely visible. She turned south again, humming. “You have stolen my heart, now don’t go ’way, as we sang love’s old sweet song on Moonlight Bay.” Scott’s arm hugged her shoulder and guided her back to the house.