by Robbi McCoy
“Well, I’m not!” Jim said, putting his fork down.
Dave shrugged apologetically.
“Dinner conversation in this house,” Natalie observed, “tends toward the macabre.”
“Not that kind of smoking,” Faith said, “though that reminds me of this other tribe that grinds up the bones of their dead and mixes them with their food. One of many rituals that involve ingestion of the dead. Now that’s a whole other topic we could spend hours on.”
“But we won’t,” Lauren said firmly. “We definitely don’t want to go off on a cannibalism tangent before dessert.”
“No, of course not,” Faith agreed. “Back to the Congo. The smoking I was referring to is the sort where the body is smoked like cured meat, to remove the moisture. You end up with something like jerky.”
“And then they ate him?” Dave asked, sticking out his tongue.
Faith shook her head, suppressing a laugh. “No.”
“I know,” Jim said, raising his hand and bouncing in his chair like a schoolboy. “They turned him into shoes for the family so they could take him along wherever they went.”
“That’s not far off. They stood him in a corner of the house and left him there. It was a preservation method, so the dead member of the family could hang around, watch the kids grow up.”
“Now that could be a problem,” Jim observed. “If you did that long enough, pretty soon your house would be crammed full of relatives.”
Jason laughed. “But they wouldn’t eat much.”
Lauren rose from her chair. “I’m going to start coffee.”
“I saved some room for dessert,” Jason said, patting his stomach. “Lauren’s desserts are to die for.”
“If I eat another bite,” Dave said, “I am going to die.”
“You can take some home,” Lauren said, walking toward the kitchen. “We don’t want anybody dying here. Somebody’s liable to smoke you and stand you in a corner so you’ll be here for all the holidays yet to come.”
“I’ve got to leave this table,” Jim said, pushing back his chair. “Or I’ll never stop eating.”
Natalie leaned toward Faith. “What is dessert, by the way?”
“Let’s see if I can get this right,” Faith said, knowing she probably wouldn’t. “Pumpkin mousse with apple pie-spiced whipped cream and toasted pumpkin seeds. And there’s this lacework thing she did, dripping strands of hot sugar on some wax paper. Some sort of garnish.”
Natalie’s mouth fell open. “Are photos allowed?”
“Encouraged, I would think.”
Faith noticed her father’s nose was dangerously close to touching a pool of raspberry sauce on his plate. She couldn’t see his face, just the top of his head where his cottony white hair didn’t fully cover his tender pink scalp. He seemed to have gotten ten years older since her mother died a year ago. He was wearing his hearing aids, but whether they were turned on or not she didn’t know.
“Dad,” she said in her loud commando voice. He didn’t respond, so she stepped it up. “Dad!”
His head lifted slowly and his eyes opened. He looked around, confused.
“Dad, why don’t you go sit in the recliner in the living room. You’ll be more comfortable. If you fall asleep, I’ll wake you for dessert.”
“Fall asleep?” he asked, looking indignant. “Why would I do that? It’s nowhere near my bedtime. I go to sleep every night at ten o’ clock and get up every morning at five. Been doing that for forty years. Seven hours every night.”
Plus the five or so hours napping, Faith thought, but said nothing.
When Jim returned to the dining room, he had Yorick in his hand. “Look who I found trying to crash our party,” he said, holding the skull up next to his head. “Grandpa Keegan.”
Dave let out a curt, girlish scream and Faith laughed. Jim thrust Yorick toward the Brussels sprouts and spoke in a gruff voice, apparently his version of an old man. “Where’s the turkey and mashed potatoes? You know Grandpa wants his meat and potatoes. What is all this frou frou food?”
From the kitchen, Lauren said, “Put that down and clear the table.”
Jim waggled the skull in Lauren’s direction, then set it on a shelf and proceeded to stack plates. The phone rang as Faith stood to help bring in the dishes. She glanced at Lauren, who held up a hand to indicate she’d get the phone.
“I’m going to take this in the bedroom,” Lauren said after checking the caller ID, then dashed down the hall.
After ten minutes, during which the coffee finished brewing and the table had been cleared, Faith began to wonder why Lauren hadn’t come back.
“Coffee’s done,” Jim said. “Should I serve it?”
“Not yet. We can’t serve dessert without Lauren. All those fancy garnishes.”
“Right.”
The two of them stood in the kitchen looking at the irregular shards of hardened caramel on a sheet of waxed paper. They looked like diminutive amber trellises. Jim picked up a small piece and ate it.
“Between you and me,” Faith said, “I wouldn’t mind if, just once in a while, we had a plain old pumpkin pie with Cool Whip. Just occasionally, you know.”
“You can say that because you get this sort of thing routinely. To you, maybe a plain old pumpkin pie would be special. For us, not so much. I want the pumpkin mousse with the spiced whipped cream and the fancy doodad.”
Faith gave his shoulder a pat. “So how’s the rest of your family?”
“Oh, the same, more or less. Harlan’s wife just had gall bladder surgery. She’s doing fine. Mom and Riley are spending their retirement in front of the TV. They’re all having Thanksgiving dinner at the old house.”
“Except you.”
“I’ll be there for Christmas. Today, I want to support Lauren. You know.”
“Yes. I know she appreciates it too.”
“We had the same old argument this year,” Jim said, lowering his voice so the group in the other room couldn’t hear. “Mom says Lauren is always welcome to come . . . when she renounces her evil ways. And, as usual, you are not invited.”
Faith nodded. “I didn’t imagine anything had changed. They’re still blaming me for corrupting their innocent little girl.”
“Yeah.” Jim looked sheepish.
“I’m sure they need to blame somebody, but from what I’ve heard about Lauren as a child, it seems she was well on her way to being gay long before she met me.”
“Oh, God, yes! Well, there was Stormy, for one thing. I don’t know what Mom made of that, but I had no doubt what Lauren and Stormy were doing out in the tool shed.”
“You could imagine things like that as a kid, huh? You were a teenager by then, I guess.”
“Yes. But I didn’t have to imagine. When I saw them go in the shed, I peeked through the window and watched. The window was mostly blocked by tools and stuff, but I could see enough to know they were making out. If it was a cold day, though, it wasn’t long before the inside of the window was all steamy and I couldn’t see a thing.”
Faith clucked at him disapprovingly. “I guess at that age you really had no choice but to watch.”
“Right. But even before that, before Stormy, she had all the signs. Nothing girlish about her. It was like living in a house with all boys. She did everything we did. She’d pick up frogs and snakes with no problem. And, man, could she throw a punch.” He winced, feeling his jaw. “But around other people, she was really shy. She always hung back, avoided people. I think she knew she was different all along and that’s why she was so introverted. She read all the time. Escaped into books. She was smarter than all of us.”
“Cuter too.”
“Oh, sure, much cuter!” He grew serious. “But, you know, Mom had such a lot of dreams about her only daughter. I think it really broke her heart that she turned out to be gay.”
“It breaks Lauren’s heart that her family has rejected her,” Faith pointed out, knowing that Jim, alone among his family members, understood.
>
He picked up another piece of caramel. “That’s why I keep having this argument with them. But they won’t budge.”
“Nor will she. She’s very angry at her mother. And her other brothers. It’s probably best not to bring this up with her. It will just upset her and hurt her feelings.”
He nodded. “I won’t. I’d only bring it up if something had changed. Like Hell froze over.”
“It’s sad. Your mother could have had her daughter all along. Lauren is a kind and loving woman. She’d make a devoted daughter. She could have given your mother so much.”
Jim nodded with a look of gloomy resignation.
“Hey!” called Dave from the dining room, “what’s the holdup?”
Faith waved a hand toward them. “I’ll go get Lauren.”
She scooped Yorick from the dining room shelf and detoured into the den to return him to her desk. On her way down the hall, she could hear Lauren laughing delightedly from the bedroom. She was talking to Cassie. Faith could always tell. There was something about the way she laughed without restraint.
She walked into the bedroom to see Lauren lying on the bed, phone to her ear, grinning. She waved. Faith stood beside the bed purposely until Lauren said to Cassie, “Just a second.” Then she covered the receiver and looked attentive.
“Dessert?” Faith suggested.
“Oh, sure. I’ll be right there.”
As Faith left, she heard Lauren say, “Cassie, I have to go. I’ll e-mail you later. I want to hear what you thought of my article.”
Faith stopped in the hallway, turned and walked back to the bedroom where Lauren was hanging up the phone.
“What article?” she asked.
“You know, the one I’ve been working on, the French colonial period influence on modern Shanghai cuisine.”
“Yes, the one you want to sell to an in-flight magazine. Sure. I didn’t know you’d finished.”
“More or less. Ready for a critique anyway. I sent it to Cassie yesterday. She has some suggestions. I’m sort of anxious to hear them.”
Faith was surprised. “Why didn’t you ask me to read it?”
“You’ve been so busy with midterms and everything lately. I knew you didn’t have time right now.”
Faith tried not to sound hurt. “I would have made time. You know I’m always interested in your writing.”
Faith could tell by Lauren’s tender expression that she had not succeeded in hiding her hurt feelings.
“I know that,” Lauren said softly, putting a hand on her arm. “And I do want you to read it. You’re my best critic, always. Your advice is spot on. I figured you could read it this weekend, once the whole Thanksgiving thing is over. I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would matter if I got her opinion first.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Faith felt suddenly foolish and wanted Lauren to understand her irrational response. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter. It was just a momentary feeling that you were going to her for something you used to go to me for.”
Lauren shook her head. “No. Not at all. I had every intention of having you read it, as soon as we had a chance.”
“I know. Like I said, just a momentary feeling. It was silly. The more readers you have, the better. And Cassie is uniquely qualified, isn’t she?”
“Yeah. An English teacher.” Lauren laughed. “I’d be an idiot not to take advantage of that. In addition to, not instead of, your help. I value your opinion above all others.”
Lauren kissed her sweetly, a gentle, slightly lingering kiss, meant to mollify.
Faith felt ashamed she’d even brought it up. She realized with dismay that she was beginning to feel jealous. She’d never been the jealous type. But this wasn’t the first time she’d felt it lately, a vague uneasiness over the way Lauren and Cassie entertained one another so well. Like how Lauren would burst into laughter reading an e-mail from Cassie or how she couldn’t wait to repeat something Cassie had said, something she deemed incredibly witty. Faith had been struggling with herself, trying hard not to feel diminished by the joy this friendship gave Lauren. That was such a petty way to react. She was above that kind of behavior. She wanted to be, anyway. She had managed, up until this moment, to avoid expressing any such feeling to Lauren. But now she had said it. Or she may as well have said it: “I’m jealous of Cassie.” Lauren was a smart, perceptive woman. She would know. She already knew. Faith could see it in her expression and hear it in her reassuring words.
What will she do now that she knows I’m capable of jealousy? Faith hoped it wouldn’t drive her underground, cause her to keep things to herself. That would be the most natural response, to avoid triggering this reaction. Faith resolved to try harder to be happy for Lauren, not to make her feel guilty for having found a friend.
“Come on,” Lauren said, taking her hand. “Let’s serve dessert. I’m expecting a loud volley of accolades for this one.”
Faith smiled. “Don’t worry. There’s no way it could miss, especially as you’ve upped the anticipation by making everyone wait so long.”
Chapter Eighteen
Just as Lauren shoved the lasagna back into the oven with its new layer of mozzarella, she heard the garage door open. Her level of excitement was already so high she was alarmed to note it getting even higher. So that’s what that weird expression means, she thought, about jumping out of your skin. She pulled the oven mitt from her hand too quickly and knocked the flour over. A cloud of white dust splashed across the countertop tile. No time to do anything about that, she realized, because she could hear them talking as they approached the back door.
For months, for seven months to be precise, she and Cassie had been planning and talking about this visit. Since two days after their return from China when Lauren first proposed it, they had been in constant contact. During those months, there were very few topics they had not discussed. They’d shared stories about their childhood and compared views on religion and politics and television shows and cheese. Everything! Lauren knew Cassie took her coffee black, that her favorite color was green, that her father had red hair, that she preferred Almond Joy to Mounds. Or, in her words, that she “always felt like a nut.” And she knew similar things about Lauren too.
Now that they were about to be facing one another, she was full of anxiety. Why did I tell her all those things, she wondered. I barely know this woman. Had Cassie been entertaining Jennifer with Lauren’s personal revelations? Did they laugh over her foibles? What she cared about more than embarrassing revelations, though, was whether or not this deepening friendship would survive a week of close proximity. It was one thing to carefully measure out every word, edit and rewrite, given the luxury of e-mail and their mutual skill at writing, but this week would be completely different. She was filled with dread to think that the in-person visit would taint or even destroy what they had both come to cherish, that other presence, distant but on call and reliably sympathetic. Cassie had rapidly become her best friend. But there was something about the medium of e-mail that made her seem a little like an invisible, even imaginary, friend. Their online relationship had been going on much longer and was much more intimate than their few days in China. Now, her imaginary friend was coming through the door of her kitchen, laughing, in the flesh, and she could barely contain herself.
Faith held the door open and Cassie rushed into Lauren’s arms, hugging her exuberantly. When their long hug was over, Lauren reached out to Jennifer to hug her too.
“It smells so good in here,” Cassie said, hooking her hair behind her ear. “At last we’re going to get a sample of your cooking. I’ve heard such wonderful things about it. All from you, of course.”
Cassie laughed and Faith did too.
“I can’t believe you’re finally here,” Lauren gushed.
“I know,” Cassie agreed. “It seems like we’ve been planning this trip for years.”
“It’s only been seven months since China,” Jennifer pointed out, a period of time that apparently seemed like a t
rifle to her.
Jennifer looked the same as she had seven months before, but Lauren realized she’d remembered her inaccurately. She was a good looking woman, but over the last few months, Lauren’s memory had changed her somewhat to resemble a scowling troll more than a swimsuit model. She was far closer to the latter.
Cassie, though, looked the same as the image Lauren had held in her mind—bright, delighted eyes behind her glasses, toothy smile, dimples. She stood with the easy lank posture Lauren immediately recognized as her signature stance. The familiarity gave her optimism for the rest of the visit. They were going to like one another just as well in person as they did long distance. She was suddenly sure of that.
Faith led them on a tour of the house, during which Lauren heard a high-pitched scream that sounded like Cassie in some kind of delightful discovery. When they returned, Lauren asked, “What was the scream about?”
“Yorick!” Cassie exclaimed. “I saw him in the den.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Other than that,” said Jennifer, “your house is very nice.”
They brought in the luggage while Lauren put dinner on the table. The lasagna had turned out perfectly and everybody had seconds. They were a loud, animated group at the table. Faith and Cassie dominated the conversation, which was what Lauren would have anticipated. Faith talked about other vacations they’d taken. Lovely trips to Europe and Asia, Africa and Australia.
“Our trip to Australia,” Faith explained, “was my aborted attempt to get to Sky Island. You remember that story?”
“Yes,” Cassie said. “The mountain where the islanders took their dead to ascend into heaven.”
“And get eaten by vultures,” Jennifer added.
“Right. At least I got to a couple of the larger islands and was able to interview some old timers there about the tradition, hear the stories first-hand. I got some good information. It was hurricane season. The weather was too bad. Unpredictable. No one would take us to Sky Island.”
“Thank God!” Lauren said, bringing coffee to the table. “As usual, Faith would have gone out in a typhoon in a dinghy if anybody would let her.”