Stowe Away

by Blythe Rippon

  The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade has just wrapped up, and the bird for tonight’s dinner is now resting on top of the stove. I might have followed my father around the kitchen all morning in a vain endeavor to snag snacks from his ample supply, only to have him repeatedly instruct me to whistle so that the sound would confirm for him I had neither sticky fingers nor a mouth full of food.

  That concludes my account on the morning’s activities. I’ll continue my report later tonight, provided we all survive the gastronomic catastrophe that is overeating. Happy Thanksgiving, Natalie.

  Best,

  Sam

  Unlike the typical Thanksgiving feasts at the Latham house, organized by Jack and attended by various Stowe residents he invited, dinner this year was a quiet affair: just the three Lathams and their neighbor Dolores, whose constant chatter relieved the rest of them from talking.

  “Jack, you simply must talk to that man who drives the snow plow, before the weather gets worse. Every year, he plows in my mailbox and you have to come and shovel it for me, and it’s just ridiculous. My friend Alice knows his son—Asher or Aaron or something—and she says the son says his father is very open to constructive critiques about his snowplow driving, since he’s only been doing it a couple of years.” She reached into the pocket of her cardigan and extracted a slip of paper. “Here, I wrote down his number. I would call him myself, but you know how I am with talking to people I don’t know.”

  All indications were that Dolores would talk the ear off anyone who picked up the phone and said hello to her, whether she knew them or not. Eva pushed her turkey and stuffing around her plate. Sam hadn’t seen her put a single bite of food into her mouth. Jack pocketed the plowman’s number.

  Putting a forkful of potatoes in her mouth did nothing to deter the cascade of words flowing out of Dolores. “Eva, I was hoping we could talk about having a garage sale in the spring. I’ve got so much stuff—and I think it’s breeding. Every time I look around I seem to have more stuff. I’m sure you have art projects you could sell, and maybe even some of Sam’s clothes and such from high school.”

  The pointed look from Dolores made Sam squirm, and she glanced down at her sweatshirt, which read Stowe Junior High. She hadn’t grown much since then and had never bothered to purge her clothes.

  “And listen, both of you,” she continued, pointing her fork at Eva and Jack, “they still need volunteer couples to lead off the dancing at the hospital charity event this Christmas. You two are so photogenic, and Jack is one of the few men with rhythm in this whole state. So can I tell the committee you’ll do it? It would be such a relief to have decent dancers this time.”

  Jack stabbed at his turkey as though it might still be alive.

  Eva looked up from her plate. “I don’t think we can make it this year, Dolores. Sorry.”

  Dolores looked at Sam, who shrugged. “Well, I’ll just have to ask someone else, then. Samantha, tell me about your classes at Yale. I remember when my boy Ronnie went away to college. He wore a jacket and tie to class every day. I hear the students are wearing sweat pants these days; my, how things change. Are you meeting new people? I’ve lived in this town my whole life, me and my Reginald, God bless his soul. We always planned on travelling together after he retired. Well, we missed our chance, and I’m not up for going it alone. Besides, this town is chock full of interesting people. Mind you, we’ve got our share of dummies too. Have you heard about that girl who works the ticket booth at the movie theater? She got fired because she told people PG-13 meant they had to be under thirteen to see the movie. She was turning away grown men from that new Tom Cruise movie. Not that I can understand why grown men want to see a Tom Cruise movie to begin with.”

  Sam wondered why Dolores bothered asking questions when she never gave people a chance to answer. Still, it was unusual that her parents weren’t cracking jokes and teasing Dolores; this year, even her constant chatter couldn’t thaw whatever ice separated Sam’s mom from her dad. Sam was relieved when they all surrendered their forks and declared themselves full.

  Dolores made some vague offers to help with the clean-up, but Eva shooed her away. After walking Dolores to the door, Sam went straight to the kitchen to tackle the dishes, hoping to give her parents some space to talk. Sadly, her parents refused to let her do all the work; they washed and dried in silence, and eventually Sam hummed to fill the void. Once the kitchen was cleaned, she headed to her father’s vacant office with a book, pretending to read and clicking get message on her laptop every couple of minutes. So it was merely coincidental and not at all obsessively planned that she retrieved Natalie’s return e-mail as soon as it was sent.

  Dearest Sam,

  I’m glad you wrote. Your family sounds funny and sweet. I hope I get to meet them someday.

  I used to love our family trek after Thanksgiving dinner from our house in the Presidio to the Land’s End beach, but I’ve grown more acutely aware of my family’s failings during this little voyage. My aunt complains the whole walk about her knee, but she refuses to see a doctor about it, and a journey that used to take us twenty minutes now takes forty. My two older cousins were stoned, and they spent the entire time giggling at nothing. And my uncle was belligerent and ranting about politics after too much Jack Daniels. It’s funny as we get older, how we realize the faults in the adults around us. I never noticed that kind of thing growing up. My younger brother remains oblivious, which I suspect is for the best. His idealized visions of our family will probably collapse when he leaves for college in three years, like mine did. I think leaving the nest changes your perspective.

  How are your parents getting along? I remember you saying there had been a lot of tension there recently. Is there snow in Stowe? Hey, what do you know? That rhymed.

  Ciao,

  N.

  Knowing she might seem desperate and needy, and feeling disgusted with herself for it, she hit reply immediately.

  N.,

  Why don’t you sign your actual name? Do you dislike it? Did typing such a lengthy epistle leave your fingers too weary to strike those six additional keys? Are you writing from a secret personality you possess but have thus far been nervous about revealing?

  There is indeed snow in Stowe. The sloping ground is aglow. The glistening white blanket stretches across many a furlough. Mother Nature has put on quite a show, sending twinkling flakes to embrace the rosy cheeks of those below.

  I miss school. I imagine I’m supposed to be too cool to say things like that, but I trust now that I’m in college I can embrace more openly my love of learning. I’m at home in the lab among glass containers waiting to be filled with solutions, both liquid and metaphoric. Here I’m lost between my mother’s infectious sadness and my father’s anger. Even in the same room, the three of us are often solitary, separated by seas of troubles, waves of past accusations or slights, tsunamis of fear and resentment. No lifeboats to unite us in the struggle for survival. Only individual life vests, garish in their brightness and insufficiency.

  I digress. School. Science and medicine and the time-honored, noble goal of working for the betterment of your fellow man. Or woman. Fellow person just doesn’t have the right ring. Fellow fellow would alliterate, but alas is similarly male-centric. Fellow failures, my mother might propose. Fellow fakers, might be my father’s cynical rejoinder.

  Repeated digressions. Must be the late hour. We were discussing school. I return on Saturday. I hope to see you shortly thereafter. May your travels be safe and free of turbulence in all its forms.

  Best,

  Sam

  It was the day after Thanksgiving, and Sam felt like a small child again. Although things had been strained between them for years, Sam’s parents had rarely fought, her father knowing Eva was too fragile to handle it. The few times when they had disagreed about something serious, Jack simply fled to Boston to stay with his bachelor brother, and Eva retrea
ted inside herself, the bout of depression which followed often lasting up to a month. Sam alternated between calling her father, pleading with him to return, and sitting by Eva’s side, encouraging her to eat or work.

  But this rift differed in significant ways, the raised voices not the least of them. Sam didn’t know what precipitated this particular altercation, but she escaped to Bear Pond Books to get some studying done, and when she returned, her dad was thrusting a stack of boxes haphazardly into the back of his car.

  Sam put her car into park and walked toward his Mercedes. “Dad? What’s going on?”

  Jack straightened. “Hey there, peanut. Look, I’m sorry about this. I really am. But I have to—I can’t take this. Your mother and I aren’t good for each other anymore.” He put his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Listen, I want to talk about this with you. I do. But right now I just need to go.” He picked up a box of books from the ground, wedged it between his medical bag and tennis racket, and slammed the trunk shut. “I’ll call you from Boston tomorrow after the dust has settled.” He kissed her cheek.

  Anger bubbled through Sam’s veins and threatened to erupt, and she stood rooted in place, trying to access a logical argument that might convince Jack to stay. Her father was immune to emotional pleas, prizing rationality over all else. Surely there was a sensible reason to unpack the car and go inside.

  Jack walked to the driver’s side and opened the door. He was sliding into the seat when she pulled herself together. She rushed to the door and used her body to stop him from closing it. “I don’t know what the heck happened between you two, but you can’t just abandon her. She needs you.” It was the best she could come up with, and the begging in her voice made her cringe.

  “That’s just the problem, Sam. That’s not a marriage. That’s dependency. I’m not her husband any more.” He paused. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to be her nursemaid.”

  Sam dropped her hands from the car door and took a step back as though the blow he dealt was physical. “Jesus, Dad, that’s harsh.”

  “It’s honest.” He reached out for the door, and Sam blocked him again.

  “Look, I get it. She’s challenging. But you’re not a quitter, and—”

  “Sam? Sam, are you home?” Eva’s voice came from the living room window.

  Torn between planting her feet by her father’s car to obstruct his getaway and hurrying inside to comfort her mother, Sam opted for a middle ground that turned out to be the worst of both worlds. Taking a step back from the car and toward the house, she called out, “Yes, Mom, I’m here.”

  Ever the opportunist, Jack seized the moment to close the car door. At least he rolled down the window to say good-bye. “Go. Take care of her tonight. I’ll call tomorrow.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Love you, Samantha.”

  Sam stood there helpless and watched her father drive away, taking her childhood with him.

  Sam’s legs felt like there were weights around her ankles as she trudged up the walk to the front door. The living room was empty, so she headed to the kitchen.

  “Are you hungry?” Eva asked, her head in the fridge. “Sit down. I’ll make you something.” After guiding Sam to the table, she began depositing Tupperware after Tupperware of Thanksgiving leftovers onto the counter. Dazed, Sam mutely watched her mother bustle about the kitchen, surprised at this role reversal.

  “I’m not a child, you know. I don’t know who he thinks he is, but he wasn’t my caregiver. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Always acting so put-upon and playing the victim, like my depression happened more to him than to me. I know I can be difficult, but all marriages are hard. And he’s no angel either.” Eva continued muttering softly, and Sam was relieved to learn her mother’s reaction to Jack’s departure involved anger and resentment, rather than self-pity and fear.

  A profound sense of loss settled inside her. She stood, thinking she would assist her mother in reheating turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes, but Eva waved her back to her seat.

  “I don’t need your help either, you know. I’m still the mother here, Samantha, so you please just sit there, and I’ll make you lunch.”

  Watching her mother take control of the situation, Sam appreciated how important it was to let Eva mother her. She hoped she wasn’t overdoing it when she said softly, “Mom, can I have a glass of milk, too?” Eva barely broke stride when she deposited the glass in front of Sam on a trip between the fridge and the stove.

  She knew better than to ask, but it didn’t stop her from wondering how Eva would support herself now. Art sales always contributed to the family’s finances, but it was Jack’s private medical practice that afforded the Latham family the lifestyle to which they had grown accustomed.

  The food plated and served, mother and daughter poked at the leftovers and tried to pretend they were hungry.

  Eva sighed and dropped her fork heavily. “Tell me more about school, please. Tell me about your friends there.”

  It seemed bizarre that they would be talking about her life at Yale now, instead of how Eva felt about Jack’s abrupt departure and what her future might hold. But this moment wasn’t for her to dictate. “My roommate asked me last week if it was midterms yet. I told her they were a few weeks ago, and she didn’t seem too fazed. I think she might have been high.”

  “How did you do on your midterms?”

  “Good.”

  Eva paused. “I take that to mean you got all As.”

  Sam smiled. “Yes ma’am.”

  Wiping her mouth with a napkin she had made herself, Eva looked older than Sam had ever seen her. “You know, Sam, I’ve always been proud of how hard you work. But I never had these kinds of expectations for you. It’s great that you’re at Yale and you’re passionate about what you do, but, you know, college is supposed to be the best years of your life. Are you getting out at all? Making friends?”

  This wasn’t the first time Sam heard such a speech from her mother. It gave her what she knew was a disproportionate amount of pride that her academic success was entirely self-motivated. Still, when she was feeling particularly lonely, she had to admit her mother had a point. “I made a new friend. Her name is Natalie. She’s from California and has confusing fashion sense.”

  “Well, you have no fashion sense, so I wouldn’t be too quick to judge.”

  They smiled, and Sam felt some of the pressure in her stomach dissipate. Her throat still ached with unshed tears, but she could take something approximating a deep breath now.

  Glancing at their plates still full of food, Eva pushed hers away. “Why don’t we stop pretending to eat and go see a movie? Love Actually is playing at Stowe Cinema.”

  Sam wrapped their plates and put them in the fridge and Eva grabbed their coats.

  The movie was saccharine but charming, and exactly what they needed. They even laughed a little. When they returned home, Sam reheated their lunch while Eva made hot chocolate. They sat at the kitchen counter snacking and sipping until Sam said, “I was thinking, Mom, maybe I’ll stay an extra couple of days, instead of going back to New Haven tomorrow.”

  Eva sat very still for a long moment. “You will do no such thing,” she said quietly. “I will see you in a couple of weeks for Christmas. I do not need you to take care of me, Sam.”

  Sam opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. Eva’s tone brokered no argument. “I understand,” she said.

  After Sam loaded the car with her bag and the leftovers her mom insisted she take, she shared a long hug with Eva, holding her mother’s tall, thin body tightly against hers, hoping to convey the love and support she felt for her. Eva pulled away first and, placing one hand on each of her daughter’s shoulders, imparted motherly advice. “Don’t you work so hard you forget you’re in college. You have the rest of your life to put in endless hours. Go out, Samantha. Try new things. I bet that Nata
lie could show you a good time.” Sam blinked at the last comment, trying to figure out if there was a hidden meaning there, but her mother’s expression offered no signs of double entendre. “I love you. Drive safely, and call me when you get there.” Kissing Sam on the cheek, Eva spun her toward the car, and swatted her butt. “Off you go now.”

  She watched her mom in her review mirror until she rounded a curve and could no longer see curly red hair billowing in the wind and long, delicate fingers waving good-bye.

  She thought briefly about driving to Boston, where her father was likely staying with his brother, but the possibility of losing a confrontation with him sucked all the air out of the car. The road swam as tears for her mother, her father, and their broken home flooded her eyes.

  Sam was even more nervous than usual as she glanced over at Natalie, who was fussing with the radio from the passenger seat. The homeless shelter was another ten minutes away, and that seemed awfully little time to prepare.

  It wasn’t just that she was going to be meeting homeless people. It was that most of the people she would encounter as Natalie’s assistant music teacher would be children. Never mind that she had little musical knowledge herself; she never knew what to say to children. Even if she did possess the ability to pinpoint their relative ages, she could never seem to calibrate the level of her questions appropriately, and so ended up condescending to eight-year-olds or expecting kindergartners to be proficient readers.

  Natalie landed on a Top 40s station playing Justin Timberlake, and Sam adjusted her mirrors unnecessarily.

  “Okay, so. You remember the scales I taught you, right?” Natalie asked.

  Sam had forced herself to practice alone, without the distraction of Natalie’s skin and smell and warmth, and while she might not have Natalie’s graceful touch when it came to piano playing, she was certainly proficient at the fundamentals. “Yep, got ‘em. The arpeggios too.”