Naomi turns to me like See?
“Did you buy the beer?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“I’ll have wine.”
Kenny shakes his head. “Your generation and your craft beers.” He opens the fridge and selects a Michelob, leaving me to fend for myself.
“We’re the same generation, you and I. As I’m sure you’re aware.”
Naomi throws a cube of cheese at me, then pauses to take us in. “Look at the three of us. In this kitchen. When is the last time it was just the three of us?”
Ellen, at the sink peeling potatoes, coughs.
“Oh. Sorry, Ellen,” Naomi says. “Didn’t see you there.” She shrugs at me and winces.
“That’s all right, don’t mind me. I was just cooking a multicourse holiday meal for all of you.”
Kenny kisses his wife on the cheek, then crosses back to the fridge to grab a second beer. “Daniel will have a beer with me.”
I nod. “If you can unearth him from the pig pile of nephews.” I reach for the cheese. “Mom hiding from me?”
“She went upstairs to change,” Kenny says.
“Change into a mother that talks to her son?”
Naomi puts her arm on mine. “Lower your hackles. Everyone’s doing their best.” She reaches behind Ellen, gets me the biggest wineglass in the cupboard, and fills it with a generous pour.
I swirl the wine in my glass, smelling it as it comes to a rest.
“I brought the wine,” Ellen says. “It’s safe.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Kenny retreats to find a compatriot in Daniel.
“Where’s Paul?” I ask. Naomi’s husband had yet to say hello.
“Stuck in Minneapolis. His flight home last night was grounded for weather.”
“Thanksgiving in Minneapolis. Jeez.” I’ve never been to Minneapolis; I’m sure they have fine Thanksgivings. But no one wants to be stuck in an airport hotel away from their family for the holidays.
Or do they? I have a sudden urge to grab Daniel and escape for a quiet Thanksgiving with Paul in Minnesota.
“Not everyone gets to travel to Martha’s Vineyard for their work.” Naomi shoves me playfully. “Oh, I almost forgot. Someone called for you.” She rips off the top sheet of a notebook by the phone. “Mark?”
“Mark called?” My body stills. “What did he want?”
Naomi reads her message. “Something about Joe. Do you know a Joe?” She hands me the paper. Written in her handwriting is Joe says you didn’t do it.
So there it is. Jackie has read the new draft and she’s seen right through me. My face grows hot and there’s a hollow ringing in my ears. It’s like being busted by a favorite teacher for turning in sloppy work.
“Well, you’re turning red,” Naomi says. “Who’s Joe? What didn’t you do?”
I grasp at the air for a quick lie. “A friend. I was supposed to leave a book for him to read, but I forgot.” This is a terrible turn of events. I can’t let this stand. There’s no way I will be able to be even remotely present this weekend with this information hanging over my head. I feel a strong urge to defend my work, explain my choices. If I could just, I don’t know, talk to her.
One of the boys screams from the other room. “Knock it off, nerds!” Naomi yells.
“You call them nerds?”
She shrugs. “They like it.” Another scream. “I said knock it off!”
“Actually, do you mind if I . . . ?” I point to the phone mounted on the wall.
Naomi stomps out of the kitchen; the boys are going to be sorry they roused her ire. I grab the phone and pull the cord around the corner into the sitting room so that I’m alone. The room used to be filled with family artifacts but is strangely devoid of anything personal, as if staged for a catalog photo shoot. I quickly dial Jackie’s office, not remembering until I get her voicemail that of course she’s not there. “Mrs. Onassis, it’s James Smale. I wanted to tell you a few things about the latest draft. You might have some questions and I thought I could . . . clear them up. I left the number with Mark. Thank you.”
I hang up with the sinking feeling that I’m just digging a deeper hole. I gently place the phone back in the cradle and take a few deep breaths. With Naomi gone, it’s just Ellen and me and sudden pockets of empty spaces. I fold the message from Mark and put it in my pocket. “Want some help with the potatoes?”
Ellen stops peeling and turns to me. “Your brother’s very proud of you. We both are. I hear you’ve been getting some flack around here. So I wanted you to know that.”
I make a fist in my pocket, crumpling the phone message. “I haven’t been getting much of anything, flack or otherwise. But thank you for saying that.”
“Well, we think it’s very exciting. I told all my friends at work and they’re all going to buy the book.”
“Now all I have to do is finish writing it.” I clench my teeth for show.
“So,” Ellen starts, her eyes growing wide. “What’s she like?”
“Jackie?”
I select a carrot stick from the appetizer tray and run it through some dip. Mark told me once that Jackie eats carrot sticks at her desk that she brings from home. I was convinced at the time he was making that up. Did she pack them herself? Wrap them in foil? Roll them in a damp paper towel and seal them in a sandwich bag? The idea of it was so immediately disarming, I thought it had to be some sort of shtick. Carrot shtick.
“No, the Queen of England. Unless you’ve met her too.”
I laugh. “No. Not yet, anyway.” I wink at Ellen. “She’s nice.”
“C’mon. Bank tellers are nice. Pharmacists are nice.”
“Fine. But I don’t concede the point—she is nice! But she’s also . . . I don’t know. She’s all the things you think she is. It took meeting her a few times before my head came down from the clouds and I could even form an opinion. It’s her voice that’s hardest to get used to. It’s like listening to history. But we’ve established a good working relationship. Alcohol helped.”
“You drink in front of her?” Ellen drops her peeler.
“We drink together.”
“Really.”
“I think we’re . . . friends.” I’m showing off a little bit, but it’s also not untrue. After my trip to Martha’s Vineyard, she gave me a copy of Isak Dinesen’s Out of Africa with a little note (“Another favorite of mine”). Just last month she closed our telephone conversation with “Heal, heal,” reminding me of my mission for this new draft, and I barked like a dog and she laughed and told me I always brightened her day. We don’t talk all the time, but she’s there when I need her or have a question, and it’s a nice feeling that she takes my calls. (I’m a “dick” that Mark will put through.)
“Oh my God. You’re famous.”
“Well, that’s a word on a sliding scale.”
Jackie and I met for dinner once at an Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side and were seated at a secluded table away from most of the other diners. It made me wonder if someday I might have some small recognition, money or notoriety of my own. I can’t always tell if I like Jackie solely for who she is, or if I like being with her for her access. Obviously, I like her. But I’m not entirely sure if I’m happier to be adjacent to her celebrity or if I want some small slice of fame that’s all mine. I used to think I wanted to be famous for my writing, but there’s a loneliness she exudes that makes me wonder if it’s not worth the trouble.
“Who’s famous?” My mother enters the kitchen, toying with the gold chain that hangs over her turtleneck, trying to drag the clasp around to the back and the cross around to the front. Her hair is freshly done, or set, or whatever the proper word is for women her age; it’s an ashier blond than it was when I saw her last.
“No one,” I say, desperate to change the topic. I shoot daggers at Ellen and to her credit she drops
it, but not before she mouths the word proud. “Happy Thanksgiving,” I say to my mother. “Thank you for having us.”
She lets go of her necklace and hugs me the way you might a homeless person who unexpectedly embraces you—with enough distance between us not to get anything on her. “You look . . . tall.”
“Haven’t grown.”
“Maybe it’s your shoes.”
“I took them off in the hall.”
My mother looks at my stocking feet, deciding whether to concede. “Well, anyway. You look good.”
“Thank you. So do you.” But the truth is she looks small. She has loomed so large lately, an ever-present character in my head, it’s almost a shock to see her standing in front of me. “And everything smells delicious.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Well, it does.”
My mother approaches the cheese tray and straightens it so that it is perpendicular to the edge of the counter. “How was your drive?”
“Uneventful. A little traffic around the interchange, but otherwise fine.” I nervously pick at the corner of the countertop where the Formica overhang is loose, like I’m playing the strings of a harp.
“Well, you’re here. You look good. Something is obviously agreeing with you.”
I don’t want to remind her that, despite the message in my pocket causing fresh agony, I’ve had a good year. That even in the throes of deadlines and rewrites and the pain of revisiting family anguish, there’s a peace and a pride that comes from doing what you love. I also don’t have to; I know it’s front and center on her mind. “Thank you. I have a lot to be thankful for.”
“We all do,” my mother says. Certainly she means having her family healthy and safe under one roof, her children all now having found some success in their chosen fields. Yet she says it without pause or reflection; it makes me think this is a woman on autopilot, playing the part but not entirely living it.
“May I talk to you for a moment?”
I lead my mother into the dining room. The table is beautifully made, a perfect mix of highbrow place settings and turkey-day kitsch. My grandmother’s china and her own gold-rimmed wedding crystal (the same goblets she mixes with Spode dinnerware at Christmas) offset by a dried gourd centerpiece and ceramic pilgrim salt and pepper shakers whose Puritan faces are painted with surprised expressions like sex dolls. We turn to face each other and I notice my mother’s necklace clasp is still not quite where she would like it.
“Here, let me help you.” I slide the clasp behind her neck and then rest my hands on her shoulders. I take a deep breath. “I’m really happy to be here.”
“I’m really happy you came.” She averts her eyes.
“Are we good?”
“What do you mean?”
Sigh. “Do we need to talk about anything.”
“James, I’m fine.”
“A lot has happened this year. I’m here to talk about it, if you’d like to.”
“I think we’ve talked enough.”
I wish Jackie could be here to witness this. See? I would say. We’ve hardly spoken at all! Every mother may have a story, but good luck getting mine to tell hers.
“I’d like to have a nice meal,” she continues.
I let go of her shoulders and drop my hands to my sides. I notice handprint-turkey artwork placed on everyone’s chair. “We used to do those, you and I.”
“We used to do what?”
“Traced our hands and drew turkeys.”
“I did those with the boys last weekend.”
“That’s really fun,” I say, but I’m not sure really what I mean. You used to be fun? I used to be fun? Life used to be fun.
“Aileen!” We jump. It’s Daniel. He’s broken free of the nephews and has appeared in the doorway holding his Michelob. He approaches my mother and gives her a gentle hug. I laugh, as his hugs used to be more encompassing, more bearlike, until it became clear they terrified her.
“Hi, Daniel. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving to you.” He gives her a peck on the cheek.
Together they head back to the kitchen.
“Which pot has the neck?” I see Daniel head for the stove before he disappears from view.
“It’s there somewhere,” my mother calls after him. The first Thanksgiving I brought him home he innocently took inventory of each saucepan on the burners and freaked out when he found the turkey neck my mother was boiling to make gravy. Ever since then he’s been fascinated by this tradition.
I look at the table and notice one setting missing a salad fork. I open the hutch drawer to fetch another, remembering as I always do when my father had built the entire unit by hand. He was protective of his workshop, a hidden room in the back of the barn. He and Kenny would spend hours in there, discussing the purpose of each woodworking tool, the plane, the radial saw, the different grades of sandpaper. I tried at times to join them but always felt profoundly out of place. I didn’t like the screech the tools made, the burning smell that would linger after he cut a piece of wood, or the haze of sawdust that seemed to permanently hang in the air. I’m sure he read my disinterest, but I would have overcome all of it to feel the least bit included.
“You must be so proud of James,” I hear Daniel say from the kitchen. I snap back to attention, place the missing fork on the table, and B-line for the kitchen to head off any trouble. Daniel winks at me to acknowledge he knows he’s stirring a huge pot of shit and then pops two cheese bites into his mouth and hungrily swipes a stalk of celery through the onion dip. I would wring his own neck and boil it if he weren’t so adorable.
“I’m proud of all my children,” my mother replies, without looking anywhere near the one child of hers standing in the room. Autopilot. A written line from a play only she has the script to.
◆ EIGHTEEN ◆
After the meal we sit in bloated silence, moving the last bit of scraps around on our plates, the clink and scraping of silverware amplified by the lull in conversation. Everyone sits in quiet contemplation of another bite, an additional dollop of something with butter or gravy, but no one dares—the realization quickly sinking in that even one more mouthful is not possible without us exploding one by one like characters at the end of a Monty Python sketch.
“I can’t sit on this any longer. We’re all playing it cool, like it’s not really going on, like this is just like any other Thanksgiving, with normal family news, like which kid did what in whose school. But I give,” Kenny says. “What’s she like?”
I’m tempted to offer a cool “Who?” but I know better. “My editor?”
“Yes, your editor.” Kenny playfully snarls.
“Jackie,” I say, as if anyone at the table needs help catching up.
“Is that what you call her?” Kenny is shocked.
“That’s her name.” And then, realizing how obnoxious I sound, I add, “I call her Mrs. Onassis in person. People afford her that respect.”
“She’s nice,” Ellen says, mocking my earlier description.
“Ellen,” I protest. I sneak a sideways peek at my mother, who is folding her napkin into some intricate swan.
“She’s not nice?” Kenny is confused.
“She’s nice,” I say. “Really very nice.”
“And you’ve met her,” Kenny attempts to clarify. “In person. More than once.”
“He’s been to her house!” Ellen exclaims.
“Oh, that’s right. Did you steal anything?”
“Kenny!” Naomi pretends to be horrified.
“Not the family silver! Just a little something. Like, you know, a pen, a hand towel. A souvenir.”
Daniel places his hand on my thigh just under the tablecloth, him telling me to stay calm and to be honest and proud. “Yes. I’ve met her. No, I didn’t steal anything. She’s my editor. We work togethe
r closely. And I call her Mrs. Onassis—”
“Not Jacqueline?” Ellen interrupts, teasingly.
“The way she pronounces Jacqueline is sort of two-thirds French, one-third Mid-Atlantic English. I don’t dare attempt it, I’d tie my tongue in knots.”
“Zhaq-well-enn,” Naomi tries, but ends up shaking her head.
“That’s Katharine Hepburn,” Daniel scoffs.
Everyone laughs but my mother.
“Remind us never to play Celebrity with you,” I add. More laughter.
“What’s Celebrity?” Kenny asks.
I pout and look at my brother. “Poor Kenny.”
Ellen chimes in. “With the little pieces of paper. Remember? I beat all of you that one Christmas!”
I look at the three bottles of red wine that litter the table. Two bottles empty, one has a splash left. I hold it up, offering it to Ellen, who declines, before pouring its contents into my glass.
“So, back on topic.” Naomi is having none of this distraction.
“There are other topics,” I insist.
“No, there aren’t. So what does that make you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What is your relationship?” Naomi clarifies. “Are you friends?”
“I don’t know. Colleagues?”
“James is being modest,” Daniel says.
Getting nowhere with me, Naomi turns her heated attention to Daniel. “Have you met her?”
“Oh, yes. We had her over to our apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. We sat at our little table near the airshaft and played Uno until the sun set. I made empanadas!”
Everyone laughs again; even my mother seems to acknowledge him. I look around the table. Kenny is still drinking beer. The rest of us managed to kill three bottles of wine?
“No, I haven’t met her,” Daniel continues. “James keeps her all to himself.”
“You gotta give us something,” Kenny continues. “I mean, I once met our congressman at a local Bar Association thing, and Naomi met the mayor . . .”
Naomi stops him. “I am the mayor.”
Kenny shushes her. “But this is in a whole other league. And, plus, Dad had that letter.”
The Editor Page 14