Scenes from a Thanksgiving Battlefield
In-laws will be here in two hours.
Wife is a wreck. She’s been cooking all day.
Older kids know the drill; put away stuff mother-in-law will comment on. Oldest son’s record collection and daughter’s books, both stashed. Last year, she repeatedly reminded them about their cousin Andrea’s deep sophistication in music and literature ― a not-so-subtle hint that they don’t measure up.
You’ve been cleaning downstairs. Dusted, polished, vacuumed and re-vacuumed.
You double-check everything. The look down your mother-in-law’s nose was enough to make your wife cry last year.
A sharp gasp; you forgot the bathrooms.
No, you breathe again, they’re cleaned. The two youngest scrubbed the bathroom floors all morning. God bless those troopers.
~~~~
You know.
Clomp, a dead foot slaps the ground.
You know before it happens.
Slide, the dead foot heaves over concrete.
A sudden rise of hair on your neck.
Tap.
A murmur of dread, no louder than the slightest whisper of a dying man.
Clomp.
Slide.
Tap.
You shudder, hoping it was your imagination ―
Clomp.
Slide.
Tap.
No. No, it’s not. Because if it was your imagination then ―
Clomp.
Slide.
Tap.
―then Satan herself wouldn’t be about to ring the doorbell.
“Honey, your mom’s here.” Don’t call her Satan, not to your wife’s face.
But she is. Stroke or no stroke, cane or no cane. She was mean before the stroke; she’s mean after.
In your defense, the kids called her Satan well before you ever did.
Clomp.
Slide.
Tap.
She’s almost to the door and your wife is…
Oh, God. Your wife is at the oven, about to take out the turkey. You rush in to help.
“This is heavy, honey. Let me get it for you.”
You reach out to grab the roasting pan straight from the oven. Fear of first contact, first volley, makes you forget the prospect of nasty second-degree burns.
She knows what you’re doing. She felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck, too.
“Tell the kids to answer,” your wife says. “You have to mash the potatoes.”
That’s why she’s your better half.
“Get the door,” you yell upstairs as the doorbell rings.
The kids are wisely preoccupied. Or have been mysteriously struck deaf or dying on their bedroom floors.
The doorbell rings again. The plea in your wife’s eyes changes to pitiful resignation, and finally, you step up.
“We’ll do it together.”
You approach the front door, side by side, and reach out to the handle―
When the timer on the stove goes off.
“Sorry, hon,” your wife says. “I’ve got to get the stuffing.” She rushes back into the kitchen.
A split second after you’ve started opening the door, irrevocably committed to your fate, you realize the stuffing was already on the table.
In the next quarter second, you realize she set the timer before she left the kitchen with you.
Well played, dear.
That’s why she’s your better half.
~~~~
You’ve only been engaged forty-five minutes with the in-laws and already sustained heavy casualties.
Wife was down before the green bean casserole even made it around the table; a barrage of non-stop screaming broke her. You lost track of why the in-laws were yelling at each other, possibly whether “potato” ends with an “e” or whether the car was blue. The cross-fire was too fast. Your wife’s defenses crumbled like a sand castle in the tide.
Your daughter tried ― she tried hard. The constant sniping took her out right after the gravy boat crashed to the floor.
Your oldest son deserted. You don’t blame him. Maybe you’ll see him on the other side ― maybe not. You silently wished him “Vaya con Dios” as he sped off in your car.
It’s down to you and the youngest two. They’re green, they think they’re tough, but there’s still all that white meat to get through.
And now there’s no gravy.
~~~~
You’re clearing the dinner plates, alone, wondering how you’ll make it through dessert.
Without warning, mother-in-law drops the big one. Andrea’s parents are going out of town. The in-laws will spend Christmas here.
God help us. God help us each and every one.
