Chapter 10: Thanksgiving

I laughed until I had to hold on to the counter.

Mavis took the pie out of his hands with two oven mitts.

"What recipe?"

"Pumpkin. Off the can."

"The can says fifty minutes."

"I gave it extra. For luck."

"Honey, that's not luck. That's arson."

The twins howled.

Zeke stood there dripping on the linoleum, watching me laugh.

Then his mouth twitched.

"It's the thought that counts," he said.

"It's charcoal," said one twin.

"Charcoal's a food," said the other. "He told us milk was."

Mavis put the pie on the counter by the register, in a place of honor, and stuck a little paper flag in it that said DO NOT EAT.

We pushed three tables together under the neon cup.

Mavis made the turkey, the stuffing, the mashed potatoes and a gravy so thick you could stand a spoon in it.

The old man said grace.

He thanked God for the food, the rain and "certain unexpected kindnesses."

He didn't look at me when he said it.

His wife did.

Mavis poured wine.

When she got to me I put my hand over my glass.

"Headache," I said.

Zeke was sitting beside me.

He looked at my hand on the glass, then at my face, then away.

He didn't say anything.

The twins fought over the last drumstick. The co-op president told a long story about a halibut that got longer every time he told it.

I sat in the middle of all of it, warm, with cranberry sauce on my sleeve.

At nine Mavis stood up and banged a fork on her glass.

"Toast," she said. "To Ris. Who finally dumped the gorilla."

"He dumped me."

"Shut up, I'm toasting."

"To Ris," Mavis said again, quieter, "who is going to be fine."

I drank my water.

I had to go out back after that, because my eyes were stinging and I didn't want anybody to see.

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