Our First Love

by Anthony Lamarr

  * * *

  I spent the day writing my new blog. Since Thanksgiving was in a few days, this week’s blog was titled, “The Best Meal of the Year.”

  “The (not so true) Way I Remember It” – by Caleb Greene

  The Best Meal of the Year

  When I was growing up, there were everyday kitchen rules and there were holiday kitchen rules that governed what was on the menu and how meals were prepared.

  The everyday rules were open to interpretation and changed according to who was doing the cooking. However, the holiday kitchen rules were written in the stainless steel pots that were only taken off the shelf to prepare special meals.

  My daddy rarely ventured in the kitchen or decided what was for dinner. However, when it came to his holiday dinner, he had one rule. Something wild better be on the menu.

  My brother, Nigel, still doesn’t know his way around the kitchen, but he does a great job following directions while prepping things for me.

  There are no shortcuts was my mother’s holiday kitchen rule. That meant when it came time to prepare what she called the best meal of the year, you cooked it from scratch. Except for pie shells, there were no frozen items. And, as I came to learn, there were no electric choppers.

  When I became big enough to help out in the kitchen, I went along with their holiday kitchen rules. I still do. Well, not all of them. The one that I’ve broken without regret is my mother’s rule about electric choppers. I don’t regret it because I eventually got her to ease up on this restriction. But it wasn’t easy.

  We were preparing Thanksgiving dinner the first time I pulled out an electric chopper. My mother suspiciously eyed the contraption and asked, “What’s that?”

  “Mom, it’s the electric chopper I gave you last Christmas,” I answered. “I don’t know why you haven’t used it.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” she asked.

  “Chop onions, celery, and green peppers,” I replied and dropped an onion in the chopper to demonstrate. “All you have to do is press this button and it chops the onion for you just like that. No more tears.”

  She smiled approvingly and said with all the enthusiasm of watching paint dry, “Wow. It chops them up fast.” Then, in the next breath, she asked, “What are you doing with those chopped onions?”

  “I’m putting them in the dressing.”

  “No you’re not,” she snapped.

  “Why?” I asked a little shocked by her response.

  “Because I like cut onions in dressing.”

  “What’s the difference? Cut? Chopped?”

  “I like hand-cut onions in dressing,” she said in the tone she used whenever she deemed a conversation over and she’d had the final say. “We’ll try that electric chopper one day when we’re just cooking.”

  A few months later, I used the electric chopper to chop onions to go in dressing for a Sunday dinner. After my mother tasted the dressing, she reconsidered her rule about electric choppers in her holiday kitchen.

  The rest of the rules are still written in stainless steel.

  I’ve come up with a Thanksgiving menu and my shopping list is complete. Now, all I have to do is shop for groceries, go hunting or beg a hunter for the menu’s something wild item, then spend eight to ten hours preparing what my mother called the best meal of the year.

  * * *

  Something was different. I had been feeling it all day. It wasn’t the food. The Thanksgiving dinner I, and my prep cook, Nigel, spent the entire morning preparing was the same as last year’s and every other year that I could remember. We cooked turkey and dressing. The cornbread dressing was from Mom’s recipe. Baked ham. Collard greens crammed with smoked ham hocks. Macaroni and cheese. Mom’s recipe included a cup of ricotta cheese that really set it off. Potato salad was on the menu. For dessert, I baked two pumpkin pies and a five-layer coconut cake. We sat at the dining room table and ate dinner at 1:30 like we always did. As usual, Nigel devoured enough food for three people, but he said something I didn’t expect. “The dressing was good, but the dressing tastes better when you chop the onions by hand,” he said with a chuckle and stood, stumbled into the living room, and grabbed the remote off the table during his backward plunge on the sofa. He had read the blog.

  I have a weird phobia about being alone in our dining room. Maybe it’s due to the fact that it’s the only time we used the dining room was for holiday dinners—occasions when families gather to reinforce the bonds that hold them together. I felt jittery, so I put my fork down without taking a bite of my second serving of turkey and dressing and followed Nigel into the living room. I stretched out in the recliner and let myself sink into the pacifying cavity Dad had left. When I looked at Nigel, I realized what was different. Nigel. He was pretending to watch television, but the flicker in his eyes divulged he was mostly somewhere else. Wherever he was, he was thrilled to be there. His unshackled smile was a rare, foreboding sight.

  I didn’t dwell on it at first, but Nigel had been acting kinda peculiar since he’d come home from the faculty luncheon yesterday. He’d arrived home around four, but we waited until right before dinner to discuss our day. Later that night, as I was getting ready to turn in, Nigel walked in my bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and started jabbering about our day again. His eyes shimmered as he gushed about the faculty luncheon like it had been a surreal and unforgettable whoop-de-do. All I could do was listen and watch as he envisioned a life that didn’t include me.

  * * *

  I loved my brother. I really did. And I wanted him to be happy. But could you blame me for wondering what would become of our life—of my life—once Nigel found happiness in the world outside 207 Circle Drive? Well, could you?

  CHAPTER 11

  Every moment. Every story. Every life. Ends. But endings were only new beginnings. And, this was how their ending began.

  It began when the fall semester ended nine days ago. During those nine days, Nigel began to spend more and more time with her. Every day there was something different that he had to do on campus. At least that’s what he told Caleb. He was going to the office to submit final grades, to prepare for next semester, or attend faculty development workshops. But all the time, he was with her. Whenever she stopped at Lester’s Gym for an early morning aerobic workout, he was parked across the street watching. They dined in the same restaurants, although not together. They went to the same theater and watched the same movie from a few rows apart. They did most of their holiday shopping at the posh shops at Meadows of Timberlake. The two of them were inseparable.

  Their ending had begun and there was no turning back after the third time Nigel drove by her house on Pine Bluff Road. He slowed down; slithered by. He watched as she walked out of the house carrying a garment bag and a small suitcase. He drove three blocks to the end of the street, then turned around and made another pass.

  He gazed at her as she packed three large bags filled with Christmas presents in her silver Pathfinder. She backed out of the driveway; drove down Monroe Street. Merged into eastbound traffic on Interstate 10, before veering south onto Interstate 75.

  Before Nigel realized what he was doing or where he was going, he’d driven down Monroe Street. Merged into eastbound traffic on Interstate 10, veering south onto Interstate 75.

  Nigel was on I-75, nearing Gainesville, when he finally looked at the gas gauge. He was riding on fumes. He hoped she would stop soon because the low-fuel light had started blinking. If he stopped for gas, he would lose her, but he didn’t have a choice. He had to stop at the next exit. As he drove the three miles to the exit, he began to miss her. In a stroke of fortune that gave the impression that Heaven had heard his thoughts, her right signal flashed and the Pathfinder swerved onto the exit ramp. She pulled in the fuel plaza, then parked and went inside the store. Nigel stopped at the gas pumps. He swiped his credit card through the pay-at-the-pump scanner and filled the tank.

  She bought a bottle of spring water before walking out of the store. S
he was getting in the Pathfinder when she glimpsed a FAMU faculty decal on the rear bumper of the black Lumina at the gas pumps. She remembered seeing the Lumina somewhere back in Tallahassee. Probably on campus, she thought. The driver’s back was to her, so she couldn’t get a good look at him. By the time she backed out and pulled over to the gas pumps, Nigel had driven away…but not too far.

  He followed her onto the Florida Turnpike. He drove a short distance behind her as she cruised on Interstate 4, weaving through Orange Blossom Trail’s bumper-to-bumper traffic…turned left onto Lakeshore Road…entered Summerland Village…pulled in the driveway of a small, peach and white block house on Tanner Road and parked.

  She exited the Pathfinder and walked toward the house. That’s when she saw the black Lumina parked on the curb right up the block. She walked out to the street and tried to get a closer look. Nigel saw her coming his way, so he made a U-turn and sped off, but not before she saw the FAMU faculty decal on the car’s rear bumper.

  Summerland Village, a sprawling community of mostly first-time homeowners and retirees, was once a military family housing base, and Nigel had a hard time finding his way out of the bellicose maze of pastel-colored houses and indistinguishable lawns. An early dusk settled in by the time he found his way back to Lakeshore Road.

  The drive home seemed twice as long, even though the clock and mileage gauge suggested otherwise. Nigel understood this paradox because he’d had fourteen years to acquaint himself with the various ways time operated. He knew that time didn’t pass the same when you were missing from your life. Still, even though he was missing, there were questions that he couldn’t evade since he was the person asking them.

  Why her?

  Before he could answer…

  What am I doing here?

  What am I going to tell Caleb?

  The questions persisted.

  Did I actually do this?

  Or was this only a…?

  What’s wrong with me?

  Why her?

  Why her?

  WINTER

  CHAPTER 12 NIGEL

  I allowed myself to retain only a handful of memories.

  I remembered Christmas presents. The ones that could fit in boxes were wrapped in red, green or gold foil and adorned with satin bows as large as the boxes, then stacked like Legos in the guest room weeks before Thanksgiving. The Christmas tree went up on the first day of December and officially began the holiday season, but the season started months earlier for Mom. She composed and revised her Christmas shopping list throughout the month of September, and she used this list as a deterrent to bad behavior. Caleb and I would sneak into her room and search for the list that she conveniently left on the dresser. Since I was old enough to read, I’d stand in front of the mirror combing my hair, all the while glancing down at the list and calling out the items that Mom had written under our names.

  “You’re getting a three-speed bicycle, a remote control helicopter, and Rock ’Em Sock ’Em robots.” I would have to hold Caleb down to keep him from screaming and turning cartwheels.

  When I finally took my hand from over his mouth, he’d calmly ask, “What are you getting Nigel?”

  “A ten-speed, a TV-tennis game, and a watch.”

  From September to December, a scribbled line was Mom’s most dreaded method of punishment. The first misstep was met with a raised eyebrow. The sentence for the next wrong move was a dark, heavy, infectious line through an item on the list. And this was a line that couldn’t be erased or even blotted out with a gallon of Liquid Paper. Caleb and I would spend the rest of the season praying and behaving and hoping the item found its way from underneath the pile of grated lead back into the locked guest room. We did everything we could to get back in Mom’s favor. We washed the dishes without having to be asked. We vacuumed. We shoveled snow out of the driveway and walkway. We even shelled pecans for Mom’s Christmas fruitcake, then choked down the fruitcake and pretended to like it. There was no point in wasting time or energy on Dad, thinking he might feel sorry for us and put the TV-tennis game or the Rock ’Em Sock ’Em robots on his Santa list. Mom wrote his list and did all of his shopping.

  I was fourteen and Caleb was eight when Santa Claus stopped dropping down the chimney to unlock the guest room and help haul the four-story, red, gold, and green skyscraper of gifts into the living room. I was nine when I learned the Santa secret, and for five years, Mom forced me to keep it from Caleb. Finally, when I was twelve, she let me stay up and help. I enjoyed two years of pretending to make my own Santa list, which I used to manipulate Caleb. The year Caleb connected the dots and put it all together was the year Christmas took on an entirely different meaning for our family. The holiday season was no longer about presents, a jolly old man in a red and white suit, and lights and songs. This special time of year, Mom explained, was really about God’s greatest gift to mankind: His son, His love, and His forgiveness.

  Except for the small fire in the fireplace, there were no visible changes in the way we celebrated the season. The living room, the den, the hallways, the dining room, and the yard were all elegantly trimmed in strings of glistening clear lights and green garland and oversized red bows decorated with gold and green trinkets and holly and glazed pinecones. Mom still started her shopping list the first week of September, and she still used the dreaded line to regulate us. In early October, the door of the guest room was closed and locked until Christmas morning. Mom continued her traditions of piping Christmas music throughout the house during dinner and surprising Caleb, Dad, and me with small pre-Christmas gifts during the weeks leading up to the big reveal. The only thing missing was the magic.

  * * *

  I yearned for the Christmas of my youth. I wished I could see the world the way I saw it when I was a six-year-old who still believed in Santa Claus. I’d gladly trade a year of my life to see the world for five minutes through the eyes of that six-year-old who didn’t consider the irrationality of a three-hundred-pound elderly man crawling up and down the chimney of nearly every house in the world within the span of one night. There was no enchantment in the world after Santa disappeared from Christmas. The Easter Bunny. Witches and goblins. Tooth fairies. The Sandman. Happy-ever-after stories. Wishes coming true. They all became man-made concoctions to help make life more than a coming and going. Magic and miracles ceased to exist. What I really wanted for Christmas was to close my eyes, open them and believe again.

  * * *

  Our holiday season was a prolonged series of dated rituals. For the past few years, I’d basically gone through the motions and let Caleb handle everything. This year, Caleb had been acting like a scrooge, so I had to take the helm. The first day of December was the day we put up the Christmas tree, like Mom did. Normally, on the day after Thanksgiving, Caleb pulled all the Christmas decorations out the closets and tested every string of lights. This year, he sat around like the day after Thanksgiving was like any old day. I asked him if something was wrong and he shrugged his shoulders and said no. I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t press the issue. I figured he’d take the decoration and lights out the next day, but he didn’t.

  The morning of the first, before I went to work and after we ate breakfast, I told Caleb I was going outside to get the newspaper. When he walked in his room and closed the door, I opened the front door and left it open while I hurriedly pulled the storage boxes out the closets.

  “Nigel,” Caleb shouted from his room. “What are you doing?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Caleb yelled, “I thought you were going to get the paper!”

  I went outside and got the newspaper from the delivery box. I put the newspaper on the sofa, grabbed my briefcase and keys, hurried out the door, and slammed it behind me. I ran to the car because Caleb would be standing at the front window cursing and screaming as soon as he heard the front door close. And he was. I pretended not to hear or see him as I backed out of the driveway.

  It was the week before finals, which meant the
re were no classes, so I left work early and stopped by a tree lot in front of Publix. The lot attendant, a young man with a spiked goatee and a tattooed chain around his neck, told me to browse and let him know when I found a tree I liked. I chose the second tree I saw.

  Caleb wasn’t standing at the front window when I pulled in the driveway, but I noticed Dad’s recliner had been moved to the side window. I untied the tree and took it off the roof of the car. When I opened the front door, I saw strings of lights and other decoration covering the living room floor. When Caleb heard the front door close, he walked out of his bedroom and into the living room. I dropped my briefcase and keys on the floor, putting the tree down by the front window. I turned and smiled at Caleb as he sat in Dad’s recliner. “We had a pretty good day today,” I began.

  “I’m sure we did,” Caleb responded dryly.