When I was fifteen, I woke on a Saturday to one of those rare March mornings when the sky was this surprising blue. You never expect it that time of year, and it could make you all riled-up happy. I got out of bed and kept my eye on that promising sky as I plodded toward the kitchen. Nells and Mom and Dad were in there, and I could tell before I got to the door that every bit of blue had been sucked out of the place. A ballbuster of a storm was building, and there was nothing I could do to keep from being swept in.
Nells was begging to go to a friend’s birthday party that afternoon. She’d waited till the last minute, afraid of what Dad would say. I was the one who convinced her to give it a shot. But Dad, who was chugging a Bud though it wasn’t even eight thirty, was saying no way. I guessed he didn’t want to cough up for a present. Nells must have thought so too because she said, “You won’t have to do anything. I’ll walk to town and buy a present with the ten dollars Grandma sent me.”
Dad was furious. “I’m not going to have you show up with some cheap piece of crap, even if it is for a kid who’s a spoiled brat.”
“You don’t even know Madison!” Nells said. “She’s super nice—”
“She’s a spoiled brat like her mom. I can tell you this: the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Dad was always saying that, how the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“You’re wrong, she’s—”
“It’s not the money. You’ve got your chores. I want every bit of mold off that shed out back.”
Mom, slicing ham into ribbons for scrambled eggs, said, “Can’t we give Nells another—”
His head snapped toward her. “Did I ask your opinion? Did I?” His tone was vicious, his face red and bloated with anger.
Dad didn’t usually talk to Mom this way, only when he was getting into one of his moods, which happened every couple months. Nells knew the signs. She should have been quiet, should have suffered her losses and left it at that, but she jumped up and shouted, “You’re a total asshole!”
Dad was out of his chair, lunging at her, slapping her hard, and she stumbled back. I rushed over, planning to hammer the crap out of him, but Mom beat me there. She’d come up behind him, pressed the carving knife to his ribs. When he went still, she said in a cool, low voice, “You hit one of our kids ever again, you hit me ever again, this knife is going to find you when you least expect it. You got that?”
Dad went all limp and pathetic like he did, started crying and sat down. But Mom wasn’t buying it. “Get out of here,” she said. And he went.
Mom ended up serving Nells and me the pile of eggs, though neither of us had much appetite. Dad came back at the end, saying Nells could go to the party and Mom would take her to buy a decent present. But Nells wasn’t going anywhere, not with half her face looking like she had the mumps or something.
The next day, when I was helping Mom unload the groceries, I said, “Dad deserved that yesterday.”
She kept unpacking. “Sometimes you need to be clear.”
* * *
—
LIKE I SAID, my mother could take care of herself. And I have to give her credit. Dad never did hit any of us again.
Of course, there are worse things than being hit.
42
It was a little after eleven on a Wednesday night when I entered the house after my flight home. Evangeline was cuddled with Rufus on the living-room couch, watching an old movie. At the sight of me, she clicked off the TV as if she’d only been killing time.
“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving,” she said. There was no how was your trip or you must be tired. “Lorrie took me to the store today. I bought a turkey—a small one—and some dressing mix and salad stuff and potatoes and a pumpkin pie. We should invite Lorrie and Nells to eat with us, don’t you think? She didn’t ask or anything. I just think it’d be nice.”
“I’m sure they already have plans,” I said, shifting my duffel to my other shoulder. “Besides, Thanksgiving is really for family.” This made no sense considering the holiday’s history and our current situation. Yet somehow I’d stumbled on the right word with “family.” A smile flashed over Evangeline’s face, one she tried to suppress.
“Okay, but we’ll have lots of leftovers.”
“Nothing’s better than turkey sandwiches,” I said. “I’m heading to bed. It’s after two in the morning East Coast time.”
I was nearly out of the room when she said, “Oh my gosh. I can’t believe I didn’t even ask you about your trip. Did everything go all right back there?”
I stopped and turned to her. I think she saw my surprise.
“I’m working on not being a selfish asshole,” she said. “I need a lot of work.”
* * *
—
AFTER THE LONELINESS OF PENNSYLVANIA, Thanksgiving Day—with its lit kitchen and warm smells, the two of us working side by side, laughing when the stuffed turkey slipped to the floor and Rufus scarfed mouthfuls of sausage dressing—felt an entirely different world.
As we sat at the dining-room table, candles lit, Evangeline asked about my aunt and my childhood and my trip east. I could see her mind wandering at my responses, but I also saw her efforts to bring it back. In the two weeks I’d been away, the girl had changed, newly open to the possibility of relationship beyond transaction.
I think it was the growth I saw in her, the potential for more, that made me consider my own restrictions, had me wondering who I might be if I were willing to face them.
* * *
—
A WEEK LATER, I stood at the kitchen sink at eight on a Saturday morning, rain hitting the window in waves. The old plum tree thrashed with such fury I worried its limbs might break, and I was thankful to be inside with Rufus snoring in his chair, with the woodstove kicking out a good heat, with the drip-drip-dripping of the faucet I needed to fix. Thankful to be inside with the girl, the pregnant girl, sleeping late in her room down the hall.
Student projects on the physiology of microflora stacked the kitchen table, but I was too distracted to start. Just then Rufus bounded off his chair, barking and leaping at the mudroom door. George Ellis, the Friend who’d taken over my clerk duties, stood huddled under the mudroom eave, round and wet, looking like a water-slicked pumpkin in his orange rain jacket.
When I opened the door, the dog jumped happily on George. I grabbed his collar, trying to yank him off.
“It’s okay,” George said, removing his coat and shaking it outside as he stepped in. “You know I love Rufus.” He knelt and began petting the dog. “You and I go way back, don’t we old boy? I’m happy to see you too.” He stood, an effort with that large belly, and said, “Been a while.”
“I appreciate you coming,” I said, leading him into the kitchen.
“I was grateful to be asked.”
As I poured him a cup of coffee, I said, “My father’s name was George.”
“I remember that.”
“It’s a good name.”
“I always thought so.”
We didn’t talk as I got out the prior night’s biscuits and pushed aside the stack of papers on the table. George pulled up a chair and took a bite of biscuit, gazing about the kitchen as if seeing earlier times. He likely expected me to explain why I’d invited him, but I hesitated. I hadn’t been to meeting since Daniel’s memorial, and my planned request would not be a small one.