Francie fastened a paper chrysanthemum to Sadie’s collar and regarded her with satisfaction. “There. All ready for the holiday.”
Downstairs, she found her father in the kitchen, fussing with dishes and foil-wrapped packages. The table and the counters were littered with serving utensils, plates, open bags of flour and sugar, wet dishcloths, open cookbooks, and several items Francie couldn’t identify. Cheesecloth? A knife sharpener?
“Wow,” Francie whispered to Sadie. “I hope you can find your water bowl.”
She peeked into the dining room, which was considerably tidier, but was presided over by Dana, who was so nervous that she was talking to herself. “Oh no! We’re missing a place card! … Wait, the napkins don’t match!” She held a glass up to the light and turned it around, examining it. “The water glasses are spotty!”
“Um,” said Francie from the doorway, “is today going to be fun?”
Her mother glanced up and smiled at her. Then she set the glass down and let out a breath. “Yes,” she said. “It will be. I promise. I just want to make sure everything is perfect.”
“It probably won’t be perfect,” Francie pointed out.
“And no one will expect it to be,” said a voice from behind her.
Francie turned around and gave Adele a hug. “Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays,” she announced, “whether it’s perfect or not.”
“Mine, too,” Adele replied. “I love a big family gathering.”
“Plus, it’s the beginning of the whole holiday season,” said Francie. “Next is Hanukkah, then Christmas, then New Year’s Eve. And we’ll get almost two weeks off from school.” She turned to Dana. “What can I do to help?”
“Feed Sadie,” her mother replied automatically, “and get dressed if you want to go to the Thanksgiving service at the chapel with Adele and me. We’ll just have time for that before everyone arrives.”
Francie managed to locate Sadie’s dish and food in the kitchen disarray. On her way to her room to get dressed, she paused at the television and switched on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. She remembered the year before, when she and Dana and Matthew had gone to New York City to spend the holiday with Adele. They had watched the parade in person then, standing on Central Park West in the chilly air, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands, eating hot chestnuts out of a paper bag. Afterward, they’d had Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant, since Adele had never cooked a turkey in her life.
Francie’s mind turned to other Thanksgivings. Two years ago, she and her parents had driven to Weston, New Jersey, to spend the holiday with Matthew’s family. The year before that, they’d driven all the way to the beach cottage for a New England Thanksgiving. This year, the Goldbergs were hosting the holiday meal — seven guests if you counted Adele, who didn’t seem like a guest at all.
Francie, heart pounding, switched off the television and ran to her room. The holiday season had begun.
* * *
University Chapel was a short walk from the Goldbergs’ house. Francie, wearing a dress, her very first pair of panty hose, and a new pair of velvet-bowed black flats, felt far more grown-up than ten as she walked sedately between her mother and Adele in the direction of Nassau Street.
“I love the Thanksgiving service,” she chattered. (She had been to it only twice before.) “My favorite part is the gospel choir. And the rabbi’s talk two years ago was good. I wish Matthew could come with us.”
“So do I,” Dana replied. “But someone has to stay behind with the turkey.” She turned to Adele. “Remember the year the turkey caught —” she began to say.
But Adele held up a finger, laughing. “Wait! Save all the stories for dinner. We’ll have a storytelling feast.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Francie.
* * *
Francie sat between her mother and Adele in the chapel and sang “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come.” She listened to the rabbi and the priest; looked around at the joyful, hopeful faces; and before she knew it, the service was over and everyone was streaming back outside to the campus. Francie was home in time to see Santa Claus at the end of the parade.
“Are we ready? Are we really ready?” she heard her mother ask nervously as Francie switched off the TV.
Matthew put his arm around her. “We’re ready. And it’s a good thing, because my parents just drove up.”
Francie flew to the front door and threw it open. “Hi!” she called. “Happy Thanksgiving!” She stood on the porch, Sadie bouncing up and down beside her, flower flopping, and watched Grandpa Arnold and Nonnie make their way up the walk. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang, Sadie erupted in barking, and Francie cried, “Everyone else is here!”
This time, she opened the door to her uncle David, who was Matthew’s older brother, her aunt Serena, and her cousins Brian and Rachie. Rachie was exactly her age. They had been born on the very same day; although if you wanted to get technical, Rachie was three and a half hours older than Francie. Then there was Brian. Brian was four. Francie wanted desperately to like him, but he was what Adele called a Snatcher. As Francie held the door open for him, he lived up to this secret nickname by snatching the flower from Sadie’s collar.
“Hey!” cried Francie. “Give —” Then she remembered herself. “Brian,” she said gently, “that belongs to Sadie. She’s really proud of it. This is her first Thanksgiving. Could you please give it back?”
Brian considered the flower in his fist before returning it to Francie, who reattached it to Sadie’s collar.
The afternoon stretched ahead of Francie like the beach at Lewisport — glowing and full of promise. She and Rachie lay on her bed and whispered about cute boys. She showed Rachie and Brian the few unreliable tricks Sadie could do. She and her cousins joined the adults in the living room for hors d’oeuvres. Then finally — finally — Matthew announced that it was time for dinner.
“I’m starving!” cried the Snatcher, grabbing olives out of a dish before he had even settled into his seat at the table.
Francie ignored him. The meal began. No sooner had the guests been served and the food blessed when Adele asked, “Okay, what’s everyone’s favorite Thanksgiving memory?”
This was followed by silence, and then all at the same time, Dana said, “The year the turkey caught fire,” Aunt Serena said, “The year of three Thanksgivings,” Matthew said, “The year the stranger came,” and Grandpa Arnold said, “Our very first Thanksgiving.” He glanced at Nonnie.
“Your first Thanksgiving after you got married?” Francie wanted to know.
“Well, yes,” Grandpa Arnold replied, “but what I meant —”
“I want to hear about the turkey on fire!” cried Brian.
“Don’t interrupt, honey,” Aunt Serena said softly.
Everyone turned to Grandpa Arnold. He cleared his throat. “Our very first Thanksgiving,” he said. “Nonnie and I had just come to America, after the war.”
“After the camps?” asked Rachie.
“Yes, after the camps. We met on the boat and we got married six months later. Everything in this country was new to us, even the language. We barely knew what Thanksgiving was, but we were certainly thankful to be here. Our first Thanksgiving was my favorite.”
“Mine, too,” said Nonnie, reaching for Grandpa Arnold’s hand.
“Now tell about the turkey on fire!” said Brian.
Dana smiled. “Adele, you remember that Thanksgiving, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“My family was still living in New York City then. I was about ten years old, and we were having what was supposed to be a formal Thanksgiving dinner at our house. But everything went wrong. First of all, there was a snowstorm. Then we couldn’t find our cat.”
“It turned out she was off having kittens,” Adele explained.
“And somewhere in the confusion, the turkey caught fire and my father put it out with a fire extinguisher, so the guests were served bologna instead.”
�
�Why did your father ruin the turkey?” Brian wanted to know.
“He didn’t mean to. Sometimes he could be, well, impulsive,” Dana said quietly. She gazed out the window for a moment, and Francie tensed. But then her mother’s attention returned to the dining room and she said, “Adele, tell Grandma Abby’s favorite Thanksgiving story, the one about the snowstorm.”
The stories continued. Nonnie said, “Remember the summer Matthew thought he could fly?”
“I really did think I’d be able to fly if I tried hard enough,” Francie’s father replied. “Remember when Francie wanted a pet chicken?”
“Remember when I got in trouble for taking a toy home from school?” said Brian.
“Brian! That happened yesterday,” exclaimed Rachie.
Adele let out a sigh. “It’s sad that there are no stories about Fred.”
Up and down the table, puzzled glances were exchanged. Finally, Francie asked, “Who’s Fred?”
Adele frowned at her. “You don’t know who Fred is?”
“No.”
“He’s my brother,” Adele told her.
This was news to Francie. “You have a brother?”
“I most certainly do. Dana, you’ve never mentioned Fred to Francie?”
Dana shook her head. “I barely know anything about him myself.”
“Fred is my older brother,” said Adele, “although I hardly remember him. He was sent away when I was two.”
“What do you mean, sent away?” asked Rachie.
Adele set down her fork, pushed her plate away, and began the story of the little boy — the only boy in a family of girls — who was supposed to be a source of pride for his father.
“For Papa Luther?” asked Francie.
“For Papa Luther,” Adele said. “But something was the matter with Fred. He was slow. He didn’t seem to be able to move properly. Eventually, he learned to sit up, but he didn’t learn to walk and he could barely talk.”
“What was wrong with him?” asked Rachie.
“I’m not sure what his diagnosis would be today, but back then, the doctors called him an imbecile and a cripple, and they convinced my father that he’d be better off in an institution. So one day, when Fred was four or five, Pop, without consulting anyone, including his wife, drove off with Fred and came back without him. He said he’d taken Fred to a special school, but I have a feeling Fred went somewhere very different. I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.”
No one spoke until Brian, looking impatient, said, “Uncle Matthew, you didn’t tell us about the Thanksgiving stranger!” and the Thanksgiving stories began again.
But Francie still had questions. Lots of them.
* * *
That evening, after the guests had gone home and the kitchen had been cleaned up, Adele plopped down on a couch and set an old photo album in her lap.
“What’s that?” asked Francie, sitting next to her. She rested her chin on Adele’s shoulder.
“A family album. From when I was a little girl. There are a couple of pictures of Fred in here.” Adele turned pages. Dana and Matthew joined them, sitting across from them on the love seat.
“I haven’t thought of Fred in ages,” said Dana. “I don’t remember the last time anyone mentioned him.”
“I don’t think anyone has seen him since he left home,” Adele replied, “except Pop. I have a feeling Pop checked in on Fred from time to time.”
“Is Fred still in the institution?” asked Francie, appalled at the thought. And then, before Adele could answer her, she said, “Are you sure he’s even alive?”
Adele paused. “Well,” she said at last, “no, I’m not sure. But I think he is. I think that if he had died, Pop would have said something about it.” She set the photo album on the coffee table and pointed to a picture. Francie and her parents leaned in to look at it. “There’s Fred,” said Adele.
Francie saw a photo of two girls in white lacy dresses, posed on a sofa with a much younger boy between them. He looked as though he was supposed to be sitting up, but had tipped over just as the picture had been snapped. “Are the girls Grandma Abby and Aunt Rose?” asked Francie. Adele nodded. “Fred’s head looks kind of …” Francie paused. “It looks like it’s too big for his body. No offense, but he looks lopsided.”
“He does look lopsided,” agreed Adele.
“You really don’t remember him?” Dana asked.
Adele shook her head and closed the album. Then she sat up very straight and announced, “I think it’s high time we find Fred and make him part of our family again.”
Dana looked at her, eyebrows raised.
“Fred is my brother,” Adele went on. “He’s a member of our family, but he seems like a secret.”
“How do you think Papa Luther will feel about this?”
“I think he’ll hate the idea.”
Francie squirmed uncomfortably.
“But I think we should find Fred anyway,” said Adele. “Besides, we’re adults. Pop can’t tell us what to do.”
“No,” said Dana slowly, “but we don’t want to incur his wrath.”
“I couldn’t care less about Pop’s wrath,” Adele replied.
Sure enough, when the Goldbergs placed their Thanksgiving call to Papa Luther and Helen later, Adele boldly asked where Fred was. Papa Luther’s reply was so loud that Francie hurriedly hung up the extension and retreated to her room. But when she joined the grown-ups later, Adele was smiling. “Pop told me the name of the place where Fred lives now,” she said. “That’s all he would tell me, but it’s enough. Fred is alive and he’s living in a town not too far from Barnegat Point. I plan to find him. He’s going to be a member of our family from now on, not a secret.”
“We’ll help you,” said Matthew.
“We’ll all help you,” added Francie. “It’s the right thing to do.”
“Sadie!” Francie called. “Sadie!”
Francie stood at the front door of the beach cottage in Lewisport and waited to hear the sound of Sadie’s feet scrabbling across the kitchen floor. This was Sadie’s second visit to Maine, and Francie had been able to tell, when they’d arrived at the cottage four days earlier, that Sadie remembered the house.
“And not just the house,” she’d commented later to her parents, “but the beach, the sand, everything.”
Dana had smiled. “She loved being here last summer.”
“I think she was the happiest I’d ever seen her,” Francie had replied. On her first trip across the street to the beach, Sadie had sniffed at the sand tentatively and reached out a paw. Next, she had investigated sea grass and rocks and shells, drawing ever closer to the water’s edge. And then in one sudden burst of jubilation, she’d run up and down the beach, back and forth, back and forth, leaping and twisting, darting in and out of the ocean.
Then a year had gone by with no visit to Maine, and Francie had wondered if Sadie would remember the cottage when they returned. Luckily, she’d had the foresight to clip Sadie’s leash to her collar before opening the car door when they arrived, since she was practically dragged across Blue Harbor Lane by an exuberant blond dog, eager to run on the beach again.
Now, four days later, their wonderful Maine vacation almost half over, Francie wanted to take an early morning walk on the beach with Sadie. “Before we get stuck in the car,” she said to her as they crossed the street. “Today’s an important day, you know.”
Sadie had obliged happily, and she and Francie had returned to the cottage, sandy and out of breath, in time for breakfast with Dana, Matthew, and Adele.
“Big day,” Dana said as Francie sat down at the table.
“That’s what I was telling Sadie.” Francie paused. “Are you sure it’s okay if she comes with us?”
“I talked to the director twice and asked about Sadie both times, and she said it was fine. She said Fred likes dogs, and that Sadie might even help keep him calm.”
Francie poured syrup over a stack of pancakes that Matthew set in fron
t of her. “You must be nervous,” she said to Adele. “Meeting a brother you don’t even remember.”
“I think we’re all a little nervous,” admitted Matthew.
Francie frowned. “If Fred is your brother, Adele, that means he’s your uncle, right?” she said, turning to her mother. “And if he’s your uncle, then is he my great-uncle?”
Dana nodded.
Francie chewed. “Does he know we’re coming?”
“He’s been told we’re coming,” Adele replied. “I’m not sure what that means to him. He’s forty-nine years old and he doesn’t know any of us. For all I know, he’s not even aware we exist. I have no idea what Pop may have told him over the years. Probably nothing. And today he’s going to meet his sisters, two brothers-in-law, a niece, her husband, and a great-niece.”
“And a dog,” added Francie.
“And a dog. I think he’s going to be overwhelmed.”
“I would be,” said Matthew.
Privately, Francie herself was feeling somewhat overwhelmed. There was Fred, of course. A man who, as a child, had been called an imbecile and a cripple. She wasn’t sure how she’d feel when she was standing before her great-uncle, who might still have the lopsided head, who might not even know how to talk.
Beyond that, there was Grandma Abby. She would visit Fred today, too, along with her husband, Aunt Rose, and Aunt Rose’s husband. Francie loved her grandmother, although she hadn’t spent much time with her. Her own mother did not get along with Grandma Abby, and this made Francie uneasy. She couldn’t imagine not getting along with Dana.
As if she could read Francie’s mind, Adele suddenly turned to Dana and said, “I hope you and your mother will behave yourselves today. Today is about Fred.”
Dana made a face. “I am perfectly capable,” she said stiffly, “of being in the same room with my mother and not making a scene.”
“I hope so,” murmured Adele.
* * *
Francie sat in the backseat of the Goldbergs’ station wagon with her mother and Sadie, Sadie gazing seriously out the window, appearing to study the countryside as it rolled by, her wet nose making slimy prints on the window.
Best Kept Secret Page 6