A Family Thanksgiving

J. L. Higgs

The dark clouds gathering where the sky met the highway added to Jon’s uneasiness. It had been ten months since the night of the January blizzard, and this would be the first time he’d returned to his parents’ home. His parents, his brother Mike, and his youngest sister, Ava, would be there for Thanksgiving, but not Lily, Mike’s Irish Twin. Shortly after graduating high school, she’d escaped with the few items she owned in a battered backpack.

When Ava called, inviting him to Thanksgiving dinner, Jon’s initial response was silence. He couldn’t help but wonder if somewhere in his subconscious mind, he’d willed what had happened that January night.

Sensing his hesitancy on the phone, Ava quickly said, “No one blames you. You did the best you could under the circumstances.”

“I know,” he said without conviction, despite having revisited the decisions he’d made countless times.

“Saint Ava,” as her brothers and sister called her, had always been the dutiful and compliant daughter. Following the accident, she’d put her life on hold, sacrificing her freedom, and returned home to be their father’s primary caregiver.

As the distance to the ever-darkening clouds decreased, Jon switched on his truck’s headlights. He struggled to conjure up an image of the old man, paralyzed and unable to communicate. Growing up, his father’s priority had been “making his boys real men.” In his own youth, he’d won a couple of local boxing competitions, and been a champion swimmer. In fact, the only time Jon could recall his father seeming proud of him was when he passed the various tests required to get his certification as a lifeguard, something he’d expressed a desire to be from the time he was a small boy.

Unlike with the boys, his father showed no interest in the girls beyond demanding they respect his “authority” and not give him any lip. When the siblings were young, Lily had parroted their father’s views and opinions with their mother’s approval. But upon entering high school, she began thinking for herself and became the family rebel. She constantly challenged their father’s opinions, especially about the “proper roles” for girls versus boys. This resulted in his lingering anger over his frustrating, menial job and financial shortcomings boiling to the surface. And though he never laid a hand on Lily or Ava, the same was not true of the boys.

***

Like all families, everyone in Jon’s had an unofficially assigned role. So, being the oldest, Lucy had called him the night of the blizzard. He immediately knew his mother had been drinking and wasn’t surprised his parents had argued over something trivial, and his father had roared off on the snowmobile. After patiently assuring her the old man would return when he was ready, she started one of her drunken crying jags. Between sobs, she croaked out that he’d been gone for over an hour. Then the sobbing abruptly ended, and in a voice as cold as steel, she demanded he come and look for his father.

In his cold truck, Jon turned the ignition key while gripping the steering wheel tight enough to shatter it had it been glass. The snowflakes reflecting light from the clouds made the nighttime bright, but the wind-driven snow was falling sideways, creating whiteout conditions. To keep the windshield from fogging and the wiper blades from icing, Jon turned the window defroster and the heat to maximum.

At times, the four-wheel drive’s tires spun almost helplessly, fighting to maintain traction in the deepening snow. Because of the treacherous conditions, the drive that would’ve taken 50 minutes took two nerve-wracking hours.

When Jon finally arrived, he saw that the overhead light in the kitchen was on. So he parked and went into the house.

“Hey, Momma,” he said, seeing his mother at the kitchen table in her nightgown, bathrobe, and slippers.

“What took you so long? Where have you been?”

“The roads are bad. I got here as fast as I could.”

“Humph! You want coffee?” She picked up the mug on the table, took a sip, and then gestured toward the pot on the stove.

Bear, the stray Newfoundland that Jon and his siblings had taken in years ago, wandered in. He walked over to Jon and nudged him with his snout.

“Hey buddy,” said Jon, bending down to pet the dog.

“Instead of playing with that dog, you should get out there and look for your father!”

“I’m goin’.”

Turning the kitchen doorknob, Jon opened the door. Bear was right beside him.

“It’s pretty cold and nasty out there,” he said.

“Oh, just take the stupid damn dog,” snapped his mother.

Outside, the still-falling snow had erased the snowmobile’s tracks. The drifts in the roadway separating the house from the pine forest were so high that snow slipped over the tops of Jon’s LL Bean boots, slid down their insides, and melted on his thick wool socks.

Among the pines, the trees deflected the roaring wind, so things seemed peaceful. The snow was shallow, and the moonlight filtering through the pine needles created a bluish hatch-like pattern on the ground.

When they reached the far side of the forest, Jon and Bear were swept back into the storm. Sleet had replaced the snow, and its icy projectiles pelted them unmercifully. Then Jon spotted the snowmobile, its front smashed against the trunk of a pine. About 15 yards from there, barely visible in the crusting-over snow, was a swatch of red and black plaid.

Jon tried to run, but the knee-deep snow hindered his progress. Finally, when he and Bear reached the spot, he cleared away a bit of snow and stood looking down. It was the old man, and there didn’t appear to be any signs of life.

Returning to the house and retrieving the old man’s body after the storm ended seemed a reasonable thing to do. But something made Jon squat down and give the old man a hard shove. Believing he heard a groan, Jon repeated the shove and received definitive confirmation from beneath the snow.

Jon weighed his options. Going for help wasn’t practical. And given the storm and his current location, 911 responders were unlikely to find them. Resigned to his situation, Jon hawked the mucus gathered in his throat, hurled a loogie into the nearby snow, and began digging. With Bear’s help, he uncovered the old man. His eyes then searched for something to transport his father on, but he only saw snow. So, he phoned his mother, said he’d found the old man, and told her to call and request an ambulance come to the house.

Ignoring the hammering sleet, Jon uncurled his father from a fetal position, slipped his arms beneath his father’s armpits, and lifted him so he appeared to be sitting. Then he leaned his father against him and stood up. Sliding a leg between his father’s, Jon grabbed hold of one of his arms and draped it across his shoulder. Then, clasping that same arm, he stooped, shifted his father’s body across both his shoulders, and threaded an arm between his father’s legs.

With the old man in a fireman’s carry, Jon began walking. Sleet crystals struck his face, melted, and refroze on his eyebrows and eyelashes. His knees began aching, and his legs started to shake. By the midpoint of the pine forest, sweat had saturated his clothing, and it clung to his skin. As his body grew cold, pain and fatigue gripped his stiffening arms and shoulders, but he continued walking. At times, sheer exhaustion caused Jon to stop to gather himself mentally and physically. Each time, following a quick break, he struggled on, following Bear.

When Bear and Jon reached the house, an ambulance was there, waiting. The EMTs strapped Jon’s father to a stretcher and began checking his vitals–pulse, blood pressure, respiration, etc…

“How bad is he?” asked Jon, bent over at the waist, his hands on his knees.

“Can’t say ‘til we get him to emergency,” said the EMT, securing an oxygen mask on his father, while the other EMT checked his body temperature.

“Normally, an injured person shouldn’t be moved before an assessment. But you probably saved his life.”

They loaded the stretcher into the rear of the ambulance, and one EMT climbed in with Jon’s father. The other scrambled into the driver’s seat up front. With its siren screaming and lights flashing, the ambulance sped away. Jon then turned to go back to the house and saw his mother at the kitchen window.

***

Jon turned his truck onto the lonesome dirt road where he’d grown up, then into his parents’ driveway. Mike’s baby blue Impala sat half astride the driveway gravel and the hard-packed yard dirt as if poised for a quick getaway.

As he exited the truck, Jon checked the sky. It looked ominous. Walking toward the house, he saw its mottled mustard yellow and brown colors had faded. In some places, the nails in the clapboards had popped, exposing the plywood sheathing underneath. A raindrop struck Jon’s shoulder, then another. As a light rain began falling, he jogged toward the kitchen door.

The door swung open, and there stood Mike in a red flannel shirt and jeans.

“Mike,” said Jon, nodding as he stepped past his brother and into the house.

“Jon.”

The kitchen’s red and white check wallpaper, coffee-stained double sink, ancient gas stove, refrigerator, tarnished silver canisters, toaster oven, and brown plastic dish rack were all in their familiar places. Seeing them, Jon could practically hear the old man’s voice.

“You’re the oldest… not like that, like this… now, what’d you do… what the hell’s wrong with you… you stupid or what?”

There’d been that night when he was a high school senior, and his parents were arguing. Though things had never gotten physical between them, that night they seemed about to cross the line, so Jon attempted to intervene. The old man had rushed at him, screaming, “So, you think you’re a man now!”

At that moment, a lifetime of caution and fear of his father disappeared. Pure hatred and blind rage had exploded within him, and Jon had stood his ground with fists balled while the rest of the family cowered. Then Bear jumped between father and son, separating them. Incensed, the old man then slammed his fist into the wall and stomped away, leaving Jon shaking.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway that led upstairs drew Jon’s attention. He saw Ava coming toward the kitchen. She was wearing a denim dress with white buttons up the front. A long braid of her hair hung over her right shoulder. She’d gained a few pounds since he’d last seen her and wondered if Lucy had finally ceased sniping, “She’s so skinny, I don’t know why any man would want her.”

“Hey, Jon,” said Ava, smiling as she entered the kitchen with Bear following her.

“Hey.”

She hugged him. “You look nice,” she said, stepping back and eyeing his white Oxford shirt, light blue cardigan, and navy blue pants.

He shrugged. “How’s my boy?” he asked, petting Bear’s long neck hair. “You cooking?”

“Ain’t nobody else gonna,” replied Ava, bending down and peering through the oven door’s window. “Turkey will be done soon.”

“You boys should go set the table,” she said, checking the pots atop the stove.

“Where’s Momma?” asked Jon.

“Upstairs,” said Mike, giving Jon a familiar look he recognized.

Jon shook his head and opened the silverware drawer. She was up there sneaking a drink from some bottle she’d hidden. For as long as he could remember, she’d been self-medicating. While growing up, he’d often poured out the contents of any bottle he found around the holidays and birthdays.

Silverware in hand, Jon entered the dining room. Mike was there, placing the plates and napkins on the white plastic tablecloth.

“You been by recently?” Jon nodded toward the downstairs bedroom door.

“Not so’s I can help it,” said Mike, shaking his head. “You can go in.”

“Nah, that’s alright.”

Jon started laying out the silverware, but stopped when he noticed Mike staring at him.

“You should’ve let the son of a bitch die.”

“Mike–”

“Remember when he was gonna teach us to fight ‘cause he didn’t want no sons of his to be pussies?”

An image of Mike crying in his arms and blood everywhere flashed in Jon’s mind.

Maintaining a neutral expression, he recalled trying to stanch the gushing blood while repeatedly telling Mike he’d be all right.

“And stomped on my foot, pinning it to the floor because I kept backing away and wouldn’t throw a punch?”

“That was–”

“Then hooked my lead arm and kept punching me in the face until he broke my nose? Well, if it’d been me she called that night, I’d of let the son of a bitch die.”

“Mike–”

“And then you… you lied to the folks at the hospital when they asked how my nose got broken.”

Jon sighed and shook his head. “I only said what he told me to say when we were on the way to the hospital… that we’d been wrestling and it had been an accident.”

“Yeah, well, that was one hell of a goddamn lie.”

“What did you want me to do? I was 14. Barely two years older than you? Telling what had actually happened would’ve only led to more questions. Then the four of us would’ve probably been split up and placed in foster care.”

“Maybe that would’ve been for the best.”

“Maybe, but I didn’t think so at the time.”

“Y’know, when we got home, Lily asked me what happened, and I told her. I told her the whole darn truth.”

Jon stared at Mike. He’d always known his brother and sister were close, but had thought no one else in the family knew what had truly happened.

“I’m gonna get Daddy ready,” said Ava, bustling into the dining room. “One of you should go, roust Momma.”

“Well, go on,” she said, waving her hand before entering the bedroom.

From behind the closed door, she then shouted that someone needed to make the gravy. The brothers exchanged a quick look, then went into the kitchen.

The turkey was on a platter on the kitchen counter. Jon grabbed a cooking spoon from the utensil holder and began heating and stirring the turkey grease in the blue and white speckled roasting pan on top of the stove. Left without a choice, Mike frowned and headed down the hallway toward the stairs.

From the base of the stairwell, Mike called to his mother. She appeared at the top of the stairs dressed in a black top covered in rhinestones and black slacks. Holding her head queenlike, she placed a hand on the wooden railing and began to slowly descend.

A third of the way down, she stumbled and pitched forward. Mike rushed to catch her, but she grabbed the handrail with one hand, holding up the other, signaling him to stop. She then re-assumed her regal posture and continued down the stairs. Mike, shaking his head, frowned, turned away, and started back toward the kitchen.

“Jon, Jon,” Lucy cried out upon seeing her eldest son. Jon froze, shocked by her appearance. She’d always taken pride in her looks, but the years of self-abuse were now permanently etched on her haggard face.

Floating over, she wrapped her arms around him and laid her head against his chest.

“Momma,” he said, standing stiffly in her embrace while turning his face away, repulsed by the smell of alcohol enveloping her.

“Where’s your father?” she asked.

“Ava’s getting him ready,” he said, extracting himself from her arms as the sound of the falling rain grew louder.

“Oh, good,” she said, glancing toward the downstairs bedroom door. She then bestowed an exaggerated smile on her sons. “I don’t know what I’d do without your father.”

Mike, carrying a carafe of red wine and a pitcher of apple cider into the dining room, rolled his eyes as he shook his head and muttered, “Always the drama queen.”

“I saw that, Michael. If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”

“Fine,” he said, setting the carafe and pitcher on the dining table and turning to face his mother. “Who’s gonna look after him when Ava moves out?” Mike looked at Jon beseechingly. Despite agreeing with his brother, Jon remained silent.

“Why would she do that? She just came back home. Did she say something to you?”

“Why! What do you think… that she’s gonna play nursemaid to the two of you for the rest of her life?”

“This is her home!”

“Oh, please. Give me a break.”

“Your sister’s a godsend, an angel. Hush now,” she said as the bedroom door opened. “I don’t want you upsetting your father.”

A strained silence fell over the room as Ava entered, pushing the old man in his wheelchair. She steered the skeletal, diaper-wearing, slumped-over shell, tethered to the wheelchair, over to the empty chair at the head of the dining room table.

The rain was now hammering the exterior of the house. Torrents ran down the windows, preventing any view to the outside.

“What’s with you all?” asked Ava as she walked over to the wall light switch and turned on the dining room’s overhead light. “Didn’t you all notice how dark it’s gotten?”

As Lucy walked over to the dining room table, Ava and Jon went into the kitchen. Lucy placed her palms on the tabletop to steady herself and then sat down opposite the chair at the head of the table. She unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap, then picked up the carafe and filled her wineglass.

Ava and Jon began bringing in the bowls, platters, and serving utensils while Bear wandered around the table. Finally, he lay down between the dining room and the kitchen. With the Thanksgiving meal fully laid out, Mike and Jon started to take their customary seats on each side of their father’s chair.

“Why don’t you take your father’s chair, Jon?”

Jon paused and looked at the mute, head-lolling person with drool hanging from his chin. That person bore no resemblance to the man they’d all once feared, and Jonn realized there was nothing left worth hating.

Taking a deep breath, Jon momentarily closed his eyes, then opened them and looked directly at Lucy. “I’m fine right here,” he said, sitting down in his usual chair, beside the empty one that was Lily’s.

A frown began forming on Lucy’s face, but she caught herself and plastered on a smile. “Suit yourself,” she said, picking up her wineglass by its stem and taking a long drink.

“We’d better switch, Mike,” said Ava, from where she was standing behind her brother’s chair.

Mike slid over onto her customary seat, picked up the bowl of mashed potatoes, and began spooning some onto his plate.

“Before we say grace and eat, I think we each should say at least one thing we’re thankful for.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Mike. He slammed the bowl of mashed potatoes down, causing a bit of gravy to slosh over the edge of its boat. “What are you thankful for?” he asked, pointing at his father. “The living dead?”

“You watch your mouth,” snarled Lucy. “Your father’s as alive as you and me!”

“Yeah,” muttered Mike. “Keep telling yourself that, Momma.”

“Can’t we all just try to have a nice Thanksgiving for once?” said Ava, sliding their father’s chair closer to make it easier to feed him.

“Yeah, like a normal family,” said Mike sarcastically.

“C’mon, Mike–”

“No one’s holding a gun to your head, Michael,” said Lucy, glaring at him. “You don’t have to take part. In fact, no one’s forcing you to even be here.”

“Momma!”

“Mike…”

“Fuck you, Jon. And fuck her too!” Mike yelled, jumping to his feet, leaning, over the table toward his mother, his fists clenched upon the tabletop. “Y’all want to know why Lily left? She’d had enough of this family’s, let’s all pretend everything’s wonderful, bullshit!”

“How would you know why Lily left?”

“Because I’ve talked to her!”

Silence momentarily filled the room.

“When? When did you speak to her?” demanded Lucy.

“A while back.”

“A while back, when?”

“Jesus Christ, who cares… a while back. I told her about the old man’s accident, hoping she might return.”

“And is she?”

“No.”

“Figures. That girl was always selfish. Instead of coming home and helping your sister with your father, she’d rather stay wherever she is, doing whatever.”

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve–”

“Mike don’t–”

“What do you do to help Ava? Huh? You’re the selfish one. Holding a pity party for yourself and drinking when you should’ve been protecting us from that maniac when we were growing up.”

“That’s not fair, Michael.”

“Fair? There’s no point in even talking to you. You’re drunk as usual!”

“I am not!”

Mike looked at Jon across the table, his eyes imploring his brother to speak, but Jon remained silent.

“Mike, please stop,” said Ava, tears gathering in her eyes. “Can’t we stop dwelling on the past and just move forward?”

“Yeah, Mike. It’s Thanksgiving. Let’s all try–”

“Try what? Some other version of let’s pretend? Fuck all of you.” Mike rammed his chair against the table and stormed from the room.

Jon got to his feet as the back door slammed. He looked at Ava, who was wiping away tears, then at his mother. Staring placidly ahead, Lucy lifted her wineglass and took a drink.

“I’ll get him,” said Jon, crossing the room as Bear scrambled to his feet.

Jon caught up with Mike as he was about to get into his car. “Come back inside,” he shouted above the sound of the hammering rain. “Ava’s right. Everything’s changed. He’s just a broken, pathetic old man.”

“Yeah, and she’s still the same old drunk who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself,” shouted Mike as the rain pounded the car’s rooftop. “She was the adult. We were kids. She could’ve stopped it… left him… done something!”

“I’m not saying we should forget or even forgive, but we can’t blame her for the things he did.”

“She’s as guilty as him,” said Mike, blinking rain mixed with tears from his eyes and wiping his face with his hands.

“You’re not him. Don’t let anger eat you up inside like it did him.”

“I’ve tried, but I’m not like you, Jon. The moment I saw him, I wanted to spit in his face, knock his sorry ass out of that wheelchair, and stomp on him!”

Soaked to their skin by the pummeling rain, the brothers stared at one another. Water dripped from Jon’s nose and chin, and he shook his head.

“We’ve got to move on. He’ll be like that for the rest of his life. Isn’t that punishment enough?”

“Not for me!” Mike yanked the car door open, slid into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut.

“Mike… Mike,” yelled Jon, banging his hands against the driver’s side window.

“Don’t be like him!”

Mike turned away and started the car’s engine. He flicked on the wipers and threw the car into gear. The engine roared as he made a U-turn around Jon and tore out of the driveway, tossing chunks of gravel.

“Mike… Mike,” yelled Jon, chasing after the car, his desperate pleas being swallowed by the sound of the rain, the way the ocean pulls a drowning man under.

As the car’s taillights disappeared from view, he stopped running. He turned back toward the house, his shoulders slumping under the heavy weight of failure. When Jon and Bear entered the kitchen, Ava awaited them hopefully. Jon shook his head.

From the dining room doorway, Jon and Ava watched Lucy drain the last of the wine from her glass and set it down. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that boy,” she said, staring at the old man sitting opposite her. Picking up the carafe, she poured herself some more wine. “He’s always been so damn disagreeable… just like Lily.” Slowly turning her head toward the kitchen, a look of total surprise came over her face. “My God, Jon, you’re soaking wet. Ava, honey, get your brother a towel.”