“Ailey, in my day, we used to dress for a holiday dinner. I was not aware that dungarees were proper attire for receiving company.”
My parents emerged from the kitchen. All morning, my mother had been padding around in slippers, but she’d put her heels back on now. She wore her pearl earrings.
“Hey, Miss Claire! My, don’t you look pretty? I’ve always loved your Chanel!”
When my grandmother turned to me, asking, what on earth was that awful-smelling mess, and were we supposed to eat that, my father began shouting. Was she going to spoil every goddamned holiday? Jesus H. Christ, how long could this go on?
I made an alarmed sound: I was surprised by my father’s anger. He was the calmest among us, the one to settle our female disputes. No matter how grumpy my mother was, I couldn’t remember when he’d ever raised his voice to her, or to Nana, either. But lately, ever since that day Lydia had headed back to rehab, my father had been snappish. He’d put on weight, too: his belly had gotten even rounder.
Mama had her own surprise that evening. Instead of ignoring my grandmother, she put up a hand, telling my father she was tired of this situation and she was going to finally handle it. As she moved closer to Nana, her tone was a tranquil purr.
“Miss Claire, you know perfectly well those are collard greens you’re smelling. And when it’s turnip greens season, we’re going to eat those, too. You’ve been coming here for Sunday dinner, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, and your birthday ever since Dr. Zach died, and I always serve greens at my table. Now, I was reared to respect old folks, and that’s why I have tolerated your utter lack of manners throughout the years, how you sit at my table acting as if I’m trying to poison you, and criticize me behind my back to my own children. I’ve put up with you because I know you are a lonely, bitter woman without a true purpose driving your life. However, we have reached the end of the line. Do you understand me, Miss Claire? If you persist with your rudeness, I’m going to prepare you a lovely holiday plate, call a second taxi for you, and throw you out of the house that I helped buy with my teacher’s salary. If that is your wish, you let me know.”
Under the sheen of powder, my grandmother’s face colored.
Mama put her hand on Daddy’s shoulder, balancing as she took off her heels and left them on the floor. She advised my grandmother, be careful not to trip over those shoes. She’d hate for Nana to break any bones. Then Mama walked in her stockinged feet back to the kitchen, with my father and me following.
In the kitchen, my mother picked up her wooden spoon and went to the stove. My father perched on the table’s edge.
“Ailey, do you know that your beautiful mama is the best wife a brother could ever ask for? I love her, and I love me some greens, in almost equal proportions. And I sincerely hope there’s an extra ham hock in those greens, because I love me some pig meat, too.”
My mother lifted the lid of a pot; when the steam rose, she leaned back. She tried to keep her lips pressed together, but laughter escaped. Daddy hopped from the table and dance-stepped up to the stove, offering his hand to her.
“Come on, woman. Let’s take us a turn.”
“Geoff, if you don’t stop acting silly, you better. And you know it’s not a ham hock in that pot. I used smoked turkey wings, like your doctor told me to.”
“Who cares what he says? The more pig for me, the better! Oink, oink!”
She swatted at his shoulder with the spoon, but he caught her by the waist. He kissed her on the forehead, and she closed her eyes.
“Ailey, put those cookies on the table and take some cheese and crackers out there.” Her eyes still were closed. “That should tide over you-know-who until we sit down.”
Throughout dinner, my grandmother’s signature bon mots were absent. She was quiet, in between offering meek conversation starters, which I ignored. I loaded attention on my cousin Veronica, who twirled to show me the petticoats under her dress. Malcolm had grown a scraggly goatee and was trying to get a spades game going.
“I know how to play now,” Malcolm said. “The brothers in my dorm taught me.”
“Spades is for suckers,” Aunt Diane said. “The trump doesn’t even change! Bid whist is what real adults play.”
“Aw, you talking trash!” Malcolm said.
She laughed. “And I can back it up, my dear boy.”
“Sure can,” my mother said. “I taught Diane how to play bid whist back in 1968. Now get those cards from the kitchen. Let me show you how to run a Boston on somebody.”