by Wendy Qualls
“I’m not going to say I have an answer to all that.” Hardly any of it, really. “But I can help with one part, if you want. And if you don’t have already have plans for Thanksgiving.”
Lito raised one eyebrow.
“I told you I’m the middle child out of three boys, right? And that we’re all still in driving distance?”
“You’re inviting me to a family Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Dinner plus flag football afterward.” Etiquette probably dictated he should have run it by his mother before inviting Lito along to his parents’ house, but fuck it. They weren’t going to complain about perpetually single Dave bringing someone. “My brothers and I all played, once upon a time, and my oldest nephew is on a junior team. It’s fun to go out and make idiots of ourselves once a year—especially after we’ve all eaten so much turkey and dressing we can’t move anymore anyway. You’re welcome to join in, or stand on the porch with my mother and sister-in-law and gossip about us.” He wrinkled his nose. “Pretty sure that’s what they do up there.”
Lito smiled, but it was a bit sad. “I do appreciate the offer,” he said, “but I can’t just barge in on your family dinner like that.”
“Yes, you can. Want me to dig out my phone and call my mom? She’s southern through and through—she’ll be overjoyed at the chance to feed you as many calories as you’ll tolerate. She’s also a much better cook than I am.”
“Well in that case…” Lito’s smile turned a lot more genuine. “Rather not have my first introduction to your parents be while I’m naked in your bed, though. Even though it’s over the phone.”
“Mmmm.” Dave twisted around and tugged Lito’s body so Lito was on top of him. “I’ve got a spare toothbrush in the cupboard over the sink—any chance you might want to stick around for another ‘first’ or two tonight? Assuming Spot won’t miss you too badly?”
“I finally fixed the run outside the dog door. She can handle herself overnight.” Lito stretched out to cover as much of Dave’s body as possible. It still wasn’t all that much. “I wasn’t expecting you to ask,” he murmured against Dave’s Adam’s apple, “but I’m not going to say no.”
Chapter 10
Whatever Lito’s relationship with Dave was shaping up to be, the prospect of meeting the guy’s parents for a major holiday meal was more than a bit daunting. Most of Lito’s Thanksgiving memories were of the entire Apaza clan at Uncle Diego and Aunt Ximena’s home two blocks away from his own, crammed into the small backyard and eating all afternoon until the adults ran out of gossip. Lito’s mother wasn’t a bad cook by any means, but Aunt Ximena’s cheese piononos were worth the holiday fanfare all by themselves. The get-together was always loud, frenetic, and all-encompassing. Especially so for the kids: the cousins ranged in age from Marco, who was four years younger than Lito, to Gabriela who had been a worldly twenty-three when he’d left home. She was the one who took him in so he could finish out his senior year. The family had all seen each other frequently at other times, of course, but big holidays were when everyone got to re-establish the pecking order. Somehow Lito doubted Dave’s clan would function quite the same way.
Should I bring something? he texted.
That was the polite thing to do, wasn’t it? Contribute something reminiscent of his own Thanksgiving experiences? Lito ended up spending almost an hour trying to look up a passable recipe for Aunt Ximena’s aguaymanto sauce while he waited for Dave’s return text. Everything he found required ingredients he wasn’t likely to find in the tiny Mexican section at the local Publix. What if Dave’s family subscribed to the “put meat in everything” method of cooking the rest of Alabama seemed to be so fond of? Turkey wasn’t the worst thing ever, but the idea of lard and bacon in the green beans or the mashed potatoes made Lito’s stomach turn.
Just bring you, Dave texted back.
Mom always cooks enough to feed an army.
She and Dad are thrilled to meet you, by the way. I may have laid on the “he’s all alone in a new place for the holidays” a bit thick :-)
Dave must have introduced him as a “friend,” then. That was a bit better than the “here’s the guy I’m screwing; hope y’all don’t mind” Lito had feared. Might as well go with it. In any case, Thanksgiving dinner with the Schmidt family was likely to be the most redneck thing Lito had ever done.
* * * *
“Oh, you must be Lito! Come in!”
Lito found his nose abruptly smashed into Dave’s mother’s cleavage as she caught him up in a hug. She was five foot ten, easily. It wasn’t hard to see where Dave got his build from—his parents both were twice Lito’s size. Dave was doing some manly handshake-and-back-slap thing with his dad in the doorway.
“Traffic wasn’t too bad, was it?” Dave’s father asked. “Lito, good to meet you. Jack and Jenny are in the kitchen, the boys are throwing a ball around outside, and Kitt and Katie should be here any minute. Come on in! What’ll you have? Beers and wine coolers are in the fridge; sodas in the cooler. Oh, and Connie’s homemade peach tea is in the pitcher on the back porch. Dinner’s in half an hour or so.”
Stray guests got mile-a-minute chatter from everyone in the family, apparently—Dave’s mother and both his brothers were full of conversation as well. Nobody batted an eye at Dave bringing a last minute plus-one home for Thanksgiving. Kitt and his girlfriend showed up a few minutes after Lito and Dave did, and soon the living area was full of chatter. Lito slowly teased out who was who: Jack, Dave’s older brother, was a police officer in Birmingham. The younger brother, Kitt, worked for NASA in Huntsville as a meteorological technician, which Lito was surprised to learn was apparently a real thing. Jack’s four boys were all built like tanks—as was everyone else in Dave’s family—and probably everybody in the room other than the five-year-old could have snapped Lito in half. The cacophony was the same as Lito recognized from his own family’s get-togethers. The details of a thoroughly Alabama Thanksgiving were really, really not. The conversation, in particular, ping-ponged back and forth about people Lito didn’t know but remained unrelentingly civil and mostly positive. At Uncle Diego and Aunt Ximena’s house, someone would have probably been off on a tirade already.
A series of beeps from the kitchen prompted the final mass migration to the table. The three women plus Dave’s father all ferried in bowl after bowl of food, while the boys elbowed each other to fight for the best seats and Jack, Kitt, and Dave laughingly followed suit.
“Lito, down here!” Dave called, dodging his younger-but-larger brother’s hip-check. “It’s tradition—Mom always passes the tray of cookies to the left at the end of the meal, and there’s only so many of each kind, so you gotta fight for your spot in line. I can’t hold your seat for you much longer, tho—oof!”
Kitt held his arms up in a touchdown victory pose, despite now being squarely planted in Dave’s lap. “What Dave’s not saying,” Kitt added, “is that the other half of the tradition is for Mom to come back in here, tell us we’re acting like little monsters and setting a bad example for the kids, and assign us seats anyway.” He wiggled his rump, eliciting a theatrical groan of protest from Dave. “I’m gonna take this one, though.”
“Get off me, lard-butt.” Dave smacked Kitt’s shoulder, but he was laughing hard enough he nearly missed. “Quick, Lito! Avenge me while you can!”
“My cousin Gabriela could take all of you,” Lito mumbled under his breath in Spanish. He’d never given her an excuse to pummel him—she’d always been the one to take him under her wing, for whatever reason—but her younger twin brothers were a year and a half older than Lito was and she’d learned early on to fight dirty. Some of his best holiday memories involved he and his cousins wrestling each other into submission while the adults weren’t looking.
Dave’s brothers and nephews all left Lito a polite berth from the roughhousing, though, so Lito skirted the tussling and planted himself in the chair next
to Dave and Kitt. He then braced himself against the leg of the table and got in a precise poke under Kitt’s ribs. It wasn’t enough to truly count as tickling, but it worked: Kitt yelped and shifted his weight. It was enough to let Dave shove him off and elbow him out of the way.
“Well done,” Dave panted, grinning in a way that made Lito’s heart beat a little faster. “Don’t mind them—we can be civilized enough once the womenfolk get back in here.”
“We’re already ‘back in here,’” his mother said from the doorway, a steaming casserole in her hands. “And you boys are setting a terrible example for your nephews. Kitt, come switch places with Billy. I’m not sticking Jenny all alone at the kid end of the table.”
“I wanna sit next to Uncle Dave’s friend,” one of the younger boys whined. “Mason said the grown-ups get the best cookies.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Mrs. Schmidt set down the pan and started pointing out chairs. “Mason. Katie. Kitt. Cooper. Jack. Billy. Lito. Dave. Junior. Jenny. Buck, you’re next to me. Is everyone clear?” She glared at the family in general and her sons in particular, the “don’t fuck with me” expression definitely one Lito recognized from home.
A chorus of “Yes’m” echoed from everyone. Lito found himself at the head of the table, Dave on one side and the seven-year-old Billy on the other, which meant he got significantly more elbow room than most of the rest of the adults. The two youngest boys were probably too short to see anything over the incredible volume of food now covering the center of the table, but that didn’t seem to stop anyone.
It wasn’t exactly surprising, after Dave’s glowing endorsement of his mother’s culinary skills, but the food was amazing. Lito wasn’t usually a huge fan of turkey, but this one had some sort of an orange-sage glaze that set it off perfectly. The mashed potatoes were fluffy and buttery, the dressing the perfect texture, and the green beans were deliciously crisp and made an excellent counterpoint to the gravy over everything else. No bacon in sight. Lito found himself eating more in one sitting than he’d done in a very long time.
“Do you own a dog?” Billy asked. Right while Lito’s mouth was full of his third helping of the cornbread dressing. “Mom said that Uncle Dave’s dogs love you.”
Dave chuckled and swooped in for the save. “He does, actually. Mr. Lito and his dog Spot are on the search team with me.” He shot Lito a sideways glance. “And yeah, I may have mentioned that Lumpy and Woozy both think Mr. Lito is good people.”
“Are you boyfriends?”
Lito inhaled a bite of mashed potato the wrong way, sending him coughing, but before he could answer (before he could even think about how to answer) the five-year-old answered for him. “You can’t marry Uncle Dave,” the other boy stated.
“I, ah.” Lito glanced at Dave for help, but Dave was clearly struggling for an answer too. Fuck—he did say he was out to his family, didn’t he? He was definitely out to the team, and Lito thought he remembered Dave mentioning his parents being okay with it, but “my parents figured it out” is a lot different than “let’s discuss gay marriage in front of the kindergartner.” Shitshitshit. “We’re just—”
“Because his name starts with an L,” the boy explained. “But ‘Uncle Dave’ starts with a U. And also a D. They have to match.”
Lightbulb moment.
Dave’s poker face was terrible—the smile kept trying to break through at the corners of his mouth no matter how much he tried to nod and look thoughtful. “Like Uncle Kitt and Miss Katie?” he asked. “And your mom and dad?”
“Jenny and Jack!”
“Right. Those do start with the same letter. You’re very observant.” Dave inclined his head toward his parents. “What about Grandma and Grandpa, though?”
The boy nearly bounced off his chair. “They start with G! They both start with G!”
Dave’s father snorted and had to cover his mouth with his napkin, breaking the awkward spell which had settled over the rest of the table. “That’s true,” he conceded, “but your grandma’s real first name is Constance, which starts with a C. And mine is Walter, which starts with a W, or Buck, which starts with a B. Those don’t match.”
The kid looked crestfallen. “What letter does your name start with?” Lito asked him.
“C. It’s C-O-O-P-E-R. And my second name starts with an S, but I can’t spell the rest of it yet. My Ds and Bs sometimes get mixed up.”
Lito flashed him a smile. “You want to know a secret? Mine starts with a C too—my real name is Carlos. But nobody calls me that.”
Cooper brightened. “You can marry me, then! If you want to marry a boy. Dad says some boys marry boys and some boys marry girls and I won’t find out until I have purburty.”
“Puberty,” Jack said gently. “But instead of embarrassing Mr. Lito, let’s think of something else that starts with a C. I think Cookie Monster sang a song about them, once…”
Oddly enough, everyone was happy to immediately drop the topic in favor of bickering about cookies instead. With good reason, as it turned out, because they were excellent. Lito claimed the last gingersnap before Dave could snatch it and victory had never tasted sweeter.
* * * *
In Lito’s family, the post-Thanksgiving-dinner activities were mostly limited to his dad and uncles talking shop and the women doing dishes while griping about the men. Lito and the other kids were required to help clear the table, then were dismissed to go watch TV or to get into whatever trouble they could find while out of the way of everyone else. Lito usually stuck around the kitchen for two reasons: one, Aunt Ximena usually let him take a spoon to any leftover chancaca sauce from the picarones, which was almost entirely sugar and now made him shudder to think about eating it straight, and two, it made him feel grown up to listen in while the adults talked about grown-up things.
Dave’s family did things a bit differently. For one thing, everyone helped clean up after the meal. Dave’s mother presided over the sink, but everyone else bustled around putting away leftovers and moving the extra chairs back to where they came from and carrying all the dishes from the dining room to the kitchen counters. Lito found Dave standing in the guest bathroom with the two younger boys, hoisting them up one at a time so they could see their messy faces in the mirror and apply a damp washcloth accordingly. The five-year-old had gravy down his front, on his left sleeve, and in a single long smear over his right eyebrow.
“Want me to do it?” Dave asked. He knelt down, ignoring Lito loitering in the hallway for the time being, and re-wetted the washcloth in the sink behind him before dabbing it gently over Cooper’s face. “I know you’re just going to get dirty again in a few minutes anyway, but now it won’t taste like dinner.”
Cooper giggled. “You don’t eat dirt, Uncle Dave.”
Dave ruffled his nephew’s hair and gave Lito a wink over the top of the boy’s head. “You do if you’re not on my team, right? Come on—I bet you’re an even faster runner than last year.”
“I can run super fast now!” Cooper jumped up and down, demonstrating his athleticism, then turned to Lito with open curiosity on his newly-washed face. “Are you playing football with us too, Mr. Lito? Uncle Dave would probably let you be on his team if you ask him politely and use your words. That means you hafta say ‘please’ and not make bad behavior choices.”
Damn. “Dave, you were serious about the football thing?” Lito had assumed the threat of a family football game immediately after everyone stuffing themselves silly at Thanksgiving dinner had just been a joke, but apparently it wasn’t. “I’m happy to watch you play—”
“You can watch from on the field with us,” Dave countered. He was laughing on the inside, Lito could tell. Bastard. “No tackles necessary, even. Just a lot of running and masculine displays of awesomeness. Even better if you can catch, but that’s not actually a requirement.”
“Only the boys play,” Cooper chimed in.
“Mama says girls can play football, but she’s a girl and Grandma’s a girl and Miss Katie is a girl and they just watch us so if you want to play you can because you’re a boy like me and Uncle Dave and Daddy and Grandpa and—”
“And me,” his brother chimed in, not to be ignored.
“I think he gets it.” Dave stood back up, cracking his back on the way. “Mmph. Every year I tell myself I won’t eat too much, and every year I’m lying. Okay, you two, back to the kitchen and see if Grandma has anything else for you to help with.” He ushered them out of the bathroom, then tugged Lito inside and abruptly pulled him into a short but scorching kiss. “Damn, been wanting to do that all afternoon. So what do you think?”
Lito had to blink a few times to reconcile the fact that Dave had just kissed him with the fact that the bathroom door was still open and theoretically any of his family members could have come walking by any second. Definitely out, then. “Of the kiss?” he asked.
Dave grinned. “Of all of it. You don’t actually have to play flag football with us if you don’t want to, but I’ll warn you—if you don’t, my mother will probably interrogate you instead. And possibly try to bribe you with more cookies. She’s been doing an admirable job of not asking me to define my ‘friendship’ with you so far, but I know it’s a struggle. Now that Kitt and his girlfriend have settled into something that looks to be long-term, she’ll be after me next.”
Lito wasn’t sure how he’d define their relationship either, but he definitely didn’t want to have that talk here. Being questioned by Dave’s mom was not on his list of exciting things to do for Thanksgiving. “You did used to play football for real, right?” he asked instead.
Dave nodded, allowing the change of subject. Maybe he wasn’t ready to examine their ‘friendship’ too closely either. “I wasn’t a star player or anything, but Jack and Kitt and I were all on the football team in high school. Jack Junior—he’s the oldest of the boys, in sixth grade now—started on his middle school team this fall. Dad was always more of a fan than an athlete, though, and the three younger boys just enjoy running around.”