“Do you think this year we could maybe have just one Thanksgiving?” Kate asked one night while we were doing dishes. Usually she went to her mom’s house with her brothers for one holiday meal, and then came to our house for another.
“That’s fine with me, but we should poll the troops,” I said. Everyone agreed. Ease ruled.
I made turkey, corn bread stuffing, mashed potatoes and salad. Janet brought over casseroles: one with sweet potatoes and marshmallows, one with string beans, onions and almonds.
We decided to start the festivities around 5:00 to take advantage of Elliot’s most alert phase of the day. About an hour and a half beforehand I began helping him shower and get dressed. He wore sweatpants and a loose black fleece with a little Mets logo that Alex had given him years ago. Now it was useful for hiding his swollen belly. It took ages to work the socks up over his feet. They were as round as bear paws. His new size twelve slippers hardly fit. I held Elliot’s arm as he trudged slowly, step by step, down the stairs. He leaned so hard on the banister I was afraid it might break.
I set the table for twelve with the maroon tablecloth that I brought out for special occasions. I’d always loved that tablecloth. My mother had made it out of a patterned print from India when I was little and passed it on to me. It had some rips and fraying seams, but it gave me sentimental comfort.
Nobody said it, but we all sensed it would likely be our last holiday with Elliot. We hauled out the video camera. Devon shot a hectic scene as everyone carried out heaping platters, searched for serving spoons, decided who would go to the buffet first. The shot caught Elliot taking his place at the head of the table, wincing as he lowered himself down to his chair.
He looked so weary. His face was so thin you could see the lines of his skull. His cheeks were gaunt and sunken like that ghost in the Munsch painting, The Scream. There were deep circles under his eyes. His cheekbones were sharp.
“We’re not, like, saying stuff?” Max asked.
“Sure, Max you start,” I said. “Make a nice toast. It was your idea.”
“I’m not good at stand-up.”
“You don’t have to stand up,” said Elliot’s sister Marjorie.
“I mean improv, or whatever you call it. But okay,” Max paused. “Yeah, well…We’re all here.”
There was nervous laughter.
“May I?” asked Aaron, ever the older brother, showing he thought he could do it better. I couldn’t help rushing to Max’s defense. The fact that Elliot didn’t do so himself showed he was in a daze.
“Wait,” I said. “Max got very much to the point. That’s exactly it. We’re all here is a really profound thing to say.”
“Our glasses to that,” Max’s mother said to back me up. We held our glasses high and took a sip.
I told Aaron he could have a turn. He took on a master-of-ceremonies formality.
“I’d just like to thank everyone for being here,” he said with an endearing bit of pomp, “and for working together to make this really great dinner, so we could all be together, really all of us, the entire family here now.”
“Look, now he’s the boss,” his aunt Marjorie teased.
“Oh come on,” Aaron continued. “As a family, a somewhat extended family, we get together so infrequently it’s great to have everyone sitting around the table tonight.’
I took another quick video shot of everyone digging in but didn’t want to film too long. I didn’t want to seem too conspicuous about saving the moment for the future.
Afterwards we all sat around the fire playing one of our favorite games, “Twenty-five words or less.” You got a card naming five nouns, celebrities, places or works of art. You had to use pithy clues—twenty-five words at the most—to get your team to say all five words on the card within sixty seconds.
The kids were competitive. Alex, who was good at this despite being the youngest, wanted to trade Marjorie off our team. As always, Kate and I were on the same wavelength to an uncanny degree. Elliot tried to keep up, but it was difficult so he was quiet. Still, he smiled with fatherly pride at all the antics around him.
“A prickly animal,” Janet prompted.
“A hedgehog,” Kate said. “Porcupine.”
“Yes!”
Soon it was Kate’s turn to give clues.
“Build a better…”
“Mousetrap!” Elliot answered.
“Yes!” We all beamed. He was back in the game.
His turn to give clues, however, was a challenge. He forgot that you had to use as few words as possible. He chattered on and on. “This is something you could try to eat but that would be highly unlikely,” he said.
Alex looked at me and I looked at Devon, the scorekeeper. She had the sensitivity to stop counting his words—he had far exceeded his limit. She hid the hourglass under the table and we all humored him, bending the rules the way we would for a child.
Kate made a fantastic spread for dessert. Chocolate tarts with strawberries on top in a walnut crust. Homemade walnut pepper ice cream. Chocolate port ice cream. Coffee gelato with chocolate-covered coffee beans. Pumpkin bread pudding.
Devon must have picked up the camera. The video shows us all passing plates and digging in. Elliot’s head is drooping, almost on to the table. I’m standing by his chair and lean over to put my arms around him.
“Oh, Sweetie’s so tired,” I say quietly. It sounds like I’m soothing a baby.