Thanksgiving

(This was originally written years ago. I'd say 2006 or somewhere in that neighborhood. In my effort to collect as much scribbling as I can here, on this blog, I'm resurrecting it.)

Jack girded himself for Thanksgiving dinners much as he imagined soldiers did for battle. As he drove to his Mother's house in a cold, misty rain he saw the next few hours unfold in his mind. His thoughts drifted to young G.I.s, crammed into heaving boats, headed for the beaches of Normandy and their destiny. Briefly, he wondered if he wouldn't trade places with them if given half a chance.

Jack's old, reliable Volvo chugged along familiar streets lined with bare, leafless trees. The sky loomed grey and ominous, and he read the menacing clouds as a harbinger of things to come. He lit a cigarette and cracked the window, a blast of cold, wet air caressing his face. He turned up the radio and drove on with the resolute, dignified purpose of an inmate walking to the gas chamber. The only thing missing was a priest.

Jack pulled up to his mother's house and stopped, the car still idling. He stared at the well-lit structure, which felt both familiar and alien. A wisp of smoke curled from the chimney, swirling amongst the rain before disappearing into the ether forever. He envied the smoke, wishing he could disappear as easily. With a sigh he killed the engine, tossed his cigarette, and got out. His fate was sealed. It was best to accept it like a man.

He approached the door, and it swung open suddenly. His sister Margie burst onto the porch, all frantic energy and neurosis, a glass of wine clutched in her hand.

"It's about fucking time," she said, tossing her hair out of her face with a flip of her head.

"Nice to see you too, Margie," Jack said without a trace of emotion.

"Do you have a cigarette?" she asked, sticking her hand in his jacket pocket before he could answer. She pulled out the pack and lit one up in one fluid, seamless motion.

Margie was what you would call neurotic, and that was if you were being kind. She was a relentless, petite machine, constantly in motion and rarely silent. Her ability to speak without thinking was legendary, and this trait had alienated many in her frantic path through life. Despite this she was their mother's pet, a fact that annoyed Margie to no end. The one person in the world that she most desired to annoy was their mother, and the fact that she wasn't able to accomplish this crawled under her skin and festered.

"How is it in there?" Jack asked.

Margie exhaled dramatically, craning her neck skyward and expelling smoke in a loud, exaggerated burst. She tilted her wine glass in Jack's direction, smiling.
"Brother," she said, "you're going to need a few of these."

Jack entered the house behind Margie. He found out long ago that it was best to follow Margie into a room, as she tended to deflect attention away from him without any effort. As he had hoped, she didn't disappoint.

"Mother," Margie yelled, "where did you get this fucking wine? It is absolute shit, and I mean that with all sincerity."

The house smelled of food and the woodsy aroma of the burning fire. It was spotless, as usual. Jack was struck, as he always was, by how everything was the same. Every knick-knack was in the exact same place it had been twenty years ago. The walls were the same color. His mother even went so far as to buy identical pieces of furniture when the old ones wore out. If she couldn't get the same one, she got one that was as close as possible. In Sandra Spencer's home, change was an enemy to be staved off at all costs.

From the kitchen, two rooms away, the voice of Sandra Spencer resonated through the house.

"Well, Margie," Sandra said, her voice unnaturally even and calm, "if you don't like the wine why do you keep drinking it?"

Margie looked at Jack and rolled her eyes. A laugh escaped her that sounded more like a snort.

"Well, Mother," Margie yelled, louder this time, "if I don't drink it I'll have to make it through this dinner sober. If I did that, I'd have to kill myself."

"Margie," Sandra said in the same calm voice, "you really should have been an actress. I swear, you are so dramatic sometimes."

Margie polished off the rest of her wine in a swift gulp. Her jaw tensed, and she headed off in the direction of the kitchen, stomping her feet heavily on the polished wood floors.

Jack took off his coat and tossed it on a wooden chair in the corner. It was a chair Jack had always hated. It was old, and it looked incapable of supporting any weight whatsoever. He and Margie used to dare each other to sit on it. Not even Margie attempted it. As deep as her desire to inflame her mother, she knew that breaking a piece of furniture was the wrong way to go about it. The furniture was a touchy subject with Sandra Spencer, capable of inducing a variety of wrath neither sibling cared to bear the brunt of.

Jack's grandfather, Frank, sat on the sofa, staring at a football game on the television. He was Eighty-years-old and still sharp as a tack. Jack remembered him from his childhood as being funny and warm. Since Jack's grandmother died three years ago, Frank had changed. He now only talked when prodded, and seemed to just be playing out his string with a quiet patience.

"Hi, Grandpa Frank," Jack said, waving.

Frank raised his hand in a wave, never taking his eyes off the television screen. He then let his hand drop back to his side with an audible plop.
From the kitchen, Jack heard his mother's voice. It was the same tone she'd used with his sister, polite and largely without emotion.

"Is that Jack out there?" his mother asked.

Jack inhaled sharply, considering going outside for another cigarette. Instead, he headed toward the kitchen for a glass of wine.