Mother spent the weekend before Thanksgiving making pies and now all three sit on the sideboard, slightly black and crispy around the edges, the fruit oozing out of small cracks. Kathleen and Jack stand close by, smelling and pointing, discussing which pie they want to eat first. Blueberry, Kathleen says. Are you crazy? Jack asks. Pumpkin. Then apple. Blueberry is last.
Linda laughs as she and Gerald watch them from the doorway. Seems like siblings can’t ever agree on anything, she says. She smiles and squeezes him on the arm before slipping back into the kitchen to help Mother. William’s in the living room, on the sofa by the fire, and Gerald joins him, sitting in Father’s chair and putting his feet up on the old, embroidered footstool.
She’s great, William says, raising his eyebrows, offering him the bottle of whiskey, which Gerald waves off. Yes, he says. I know. What William is really saying, he suspects, is that Linda is not what he expected. Too pretty. Too blond. Too full of life. This is the first time William has met her, and Gerald knew he would be surprised. She also works at the school, teaching Latin and serving as a housemother in one of the girls’ dorms. Gerald wouldn’t admit it to William but he, too, is surprised, every day, that she wants to be with him.
William frowns. You got to get yourself out of this town, G. How can you date someone when she lives in a dorm? Jesus Christ. We manage, Gerald says, not wanting William to tell him what he already knows. It’s just that we want to keep it quiet. Well, that’s impossible, William says. Those relationships never work out.
William leans in close enough that Gerald can smell the booze on his breath. A buddy of mine from Harvard is looking to rent out his place in Cambridge. I’ll tell him you might be interested. Gerald shakes his head. Why does William keep insisting that he knows how Gerald should live his life? He wants to say: Tell me about that job of yours, William, the job you can’t even bear to discuss. Tell me about that wife of yours who’s never around. Instead he says: Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m pretty happy here. I’ll get an apartment in town, eventually, but for now, the faculty housing is fine.
Gerald readjusts the logs in the fireplace, and the fire flares up again. So, where’s Rose? he asks William as he sits down again, raising his eyebrows. She doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving anymore? Nothing to be thankful for? Her mother, William says, so smoothly that Gerald knows it was rehearsed, knows that William is deliberately avoiding being drawn into a battle. She’s not doing well. Rose was needed over there. Too bad for us, Gerald says. I think she and Linda would really get on.
They both say nothing for a few moments, staring into the flames. I miss the old Thanksgivings, William says, with all the cousins. Gerald nods. The wood cracks and snaps. It was my favorite holiday when I was little, he replies. Even more than Christmas. The food is better. And this is fine and all, but I liked the messiness of those Thanksgivings. Mother running about, Father hiding in his study. Messiness isn’t quite the right word, but he doesn’t know how to explain what he’s feeling. An emptiness, a longing for something, but he’s not sure what it is.
Don’t you wish we could just go back, William says, almost as though he knows what Gerald is thinking. To those days? When everything was so simple? No, Gerald says, I don’t. I’m much happier now, as an adult. I know who I am, I know what’s important to me. And that really is the truth. William may have found himself inside a life that he doesn’t care for, but Gerald hasn’t. His life has barely begun.
Linda comes in from the kitchen with a platter of crackers and cheese. More hors d’oeuvres, she says brightly. I think your mother is planning for a cast of thousands. Always does, William says, sitting up a bit to face her. We used to have a much fuller house than we do now. Gerald told me, Linda says. Sounds like it was a fun time. I never had much of a Thanksgiving growing up. It was just me and my parents. Kind of like any other day but with turkey and pie.
Remember Bea on that first Thanksgiving, William says, leaning forward, looking at Gerald, and Gerald notices how drunk he’s already become. How she didn’t know anything about it, really? How we had to explain about the Pilgrims at the table. How disgusted she was with the sweet potato casserole? Gerald remembers nothing of this, but he nods. He wonders where this is heading. William turns to Linda. Gerald told you about Bea, right, he says, glancing over at Gerald. The girl, Gerald says to Linda, the British girl who lived with us. Right, she says, yes, he did. Such a lovely thing your parents did, taking someone in like that.
What did he tell you about her, William asks, as if Gerald isn’t in the room. Gerald leans back in Father’s chair. Best to let this run its course. Linda shrugs. Sounded like she was a wonderful addition to the family. Your mother told me about her as well. How she sees Bea in Kathleen. Gerald suppresses a smile. So smart of Linda to turn the conversation back to William. That’s the sort of thing he can never quite do in the moment. Well, William says, looking flustered. I don’t know about that. Kathleen is nothing like Bea. Oh, yes, she is, Gerald says. The look on her face when she’s mad? The way she stands up for herself? William shrugs, then leans toward Linda. I’ll tell you this, though. Our Gerald had quite a crush on her. Linda laughs, and Gerald, in a rare moment of absolute rage, wants to slam William into the brick fireplace. Instead, he catches Linda’s eye and shakes his head.
Dinner, Jack yells, and the three of them stand and head toward the dining room. William pulls Gerald back and lets Linda walk on ahead, wrapping his arm around Gerald’s shoulders. I wish she was here, he says. Don’t you? Gerald is tired of thinking about the past. He shrugs the weight of William’s arm away and catches up with Linda, his hand around her waist. She looks up at him with a smile, and he leans down to give her a kiss.