Mama cleans the house all week. She even vacuums. She assigns Celia and me jobs too. I cleaned the downstairs bathroom, made sure the guest towels were out, and Celia dusted the family room. She’s also in charge of the biscuits and stuffing. I’m in charge of the yams and the pumpkin pie. That leaves the collard greens, mashed potatoes, and turkey for Mama. Daddy doesn’t get any jobs because he comes home the night before Thanksgiving, so late that I’m already in bed.
I hear the car pull in the driveway. There was a time when I’d run downstairs so I could be the first to see him, but now I just stay in bed, straining to hear Mama and him talk. I can’t hear anything, though.
Thanksgiving night the Honeycutts arrive right on time. There’s Jim Honeycutt, who Daddy works with, Lana Honeycutt, who doesn’t work at all, and Micah Honeycutt, who goes to Clementon High with Celia—not that they hang around the same crowd. Micah has a fierce case of acne and an attitude to match. He and Celia’s kind don’t really mix. They mutter hey to each other, and that’s pretty much it.
I figure it’s up to me to be a good hostess so I try to talk to Micah, but he looks at me like I am a bug. We all sit around the den, smiling at one another. Except for Micah, who just scowls.
Mr. Honeycutt is wearing a navy pinstriped suit, and Mrs. Honeycutt has on a pink cashmere sweater set, and a gold charm bracelet that jangles. Her hair is auburn, and it’s pulled up in a French twist. It looks hard and stiff. I wonder if she did it herself or if she had it done.
Mama’s wearing a black satiny blouse and black cigarette pants. She wears no jewelry; she doesn’t need it. Mama looks best in black, very fair and very striking. She knows this. Mr. Honeycutt seems mesmerized by the top three buttons on her blouse—they are open, and you can see the milkiness of her throat and neck.
Daddy’s bustling around, pouring drinks for everybody. “Lana, what can I get you?”
“Oh, just seltzer water for me, Billy,” Mrs. Honeycutt says, smiling slightly. Her teeth look like they’ve been dipped in tobacco juice. I bet she’s a smoker. To Mama, she confides, “I’m watching my weight.”
“Of course,” Mama says, smiling back. Then she lifts up her wineglass and says, “Cheers to that, Lana.”
Mrs. Honeycutt titters, and Daddy laughs, too loudly.
“That’s a gorgeous bracelet, Lana,” Mama says, leaning closer. “Wherever did you get it from?”
Beaming, Mrs. Honeycutt says, “I ordered it from the Avon catalogue last Christmas. Did you know they sell jewelry, too?”
“Well, no, I sure didn’t,” Mama says. She turns to us then. “Girls, did you know that?”
Celia and I murmur that no, we did not. We exchange uneasy glances across the room. Then Daddy starts on about some project at work, and Mama goes to the kitchen to check on the turkey. She is gone a long time. When she comes back, she says just a little longer.
We sit in the den for over an hour. I can hear Micah’s stomach grumbling from across the room. Celia hears it too, and she presses her lips together tight to keep from smiling. I can’t help it; I snicker out loud.
Daddy shoots me a warning look, but I can tell from the way his eyes are crinkling that he’s trying not to snicker too.
By the time we get to the dining room table, we’re all starved. Daddy says grace, and then everybody tucks into the food. The turkey’s a little dry, but with gravy on top, who can really tell? Tastes fine to me. The potatoes are cold from sitting out so long, but you just pour on some of that hot steaming gravy and it heats them right up.
“Grace, everything is just wonderful,” Mrs. Honeycutt gushes, dabbing a napkin to the corners of her mouth.
Mr. Honeycutt says, “Yeah, you are really somethin,’ Grace. You have really outdone yourself. Everything’s delicious. Right, son?”
Micah grunts and shovels a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
“Micah, are you and my Celia in any of the same classes at school?” Daddy asks, gnawing on a turkey leg. He looks like he should be wearing a robe and a garland on his head like the Ghost of Christmas Present.
“Daddy, I’m a junior,” Celia says, rolling her eyes. She looks at him like, I can’t believe you’re my father. Celia can say a lot with her eyes.
“Well, I know that, Celia,” Daddy says, turkey leg midair. “Of course I know that.”
Rolling her eyes again, she says, “So Micah’s a freshman.”
“Oh,” Daddy says.
Mama snorts loudly. She’s not eating much of anything. But she’s drinking enough for everybody at the table. I think she’s been drinking all day.
I say, “Well, Micah could be in accelerated classes, Celia. It’s not impossible for the two of you to be in some of the same classes. Like, when I’m a freshman, I might be able to take—”
Celia kicks me under the table, hard. I stop talking and stuff some more turkey in my mouth.
To Micah, Daddy says, “Have some of that good dark meat, son. It’s not as dry.” He piles turkey on Micah’s plate.
Mama says, “More wine anyone?”
“I’d love some, Grace,” Mr. Honeycutt says, pulling at his shirt collar. He’s sweating, and his face is getting redder by the minute.
Mama smiles at Mr. Honeycutt like he is the best-looking man in the room and not the color of a rotten tomato. She pours him a glass of wine, smiling all the while. Then she fills her own glass to the top, and drains half of it in one swallow.
“Hon, I think you may have had enough to drink tonight,” Daddy says, forcing a jovial laugh. My stomach tightens, and suddenly my appetite is gone. I feel like I’m gonna throw up. It’s one thing for Mama and Daddy to snipe at each other when it’s just the four of us, but it’s a whole other thing to have an audience. I wish the Honeycutts would disappear and take me with them.
The whole table has gone silent, waiting for Mama to answer. The Honeycutts are staring down at their plates, pushing food around. I guess they aren’t used to a Wilcox kind of Thanksgiving. Celia and I are plenty used to it. We look at each other from across the table, and with her eyes, she says, I hate them both.
At this moment, I do too.
It feels like hours before Mama says, “Oh, I haven’t had nearly enough, darlin’.” She smiles and lifts her glass to Daddy. “Not nearly.”
Just then, we all cringe. Even Micah.
I think I liked Thanksgiving dinner better when it was KFC.
I hear the car pull in the driveway. There was a time when I’d run downstairs so I could be the first to see him, but now I just stay in bed, straining to hear Mama and him talk. I can’t hear anything, though.
Thanksgiving night the Honeycutts arrive right on time. There’s Jim Honeycutt, who Daddy works with, Lana Honeycutt, who doesn’t work at all, and Micah Honeycutt, who goes to Clementon High with Celia—not that they hang around the same crowd. Micah has a fierce case of acne and an attitude to match. He and Celia’s kind don’t really mix. They mutter hey to each other, and that’s pretty much it.
I figure it’s up to me to be a good hostess so I try to talk to Micah, but he looks at me like I am a bug. We all sit around the den, smiling at one another. Except for Micah, who just scowls.
Mr. Honeycutt is wearing a navy pinstriped suit, and Mrs. Honeycutt has on a pink cashmere sweater set, and a gold charm bracelet that jangles. Her hair is auburn, and it’s pulled up in a French twist. It looks hard and stiff. I wonder if she did it herself or if she had it done.
Mama’s wearing a black satiny blouse and black cigarette pants. She wears no jewelry; she doesn’t need it. Mama looks best in black, very fair and very striking. She knows this. Mr. Honeycutt seems mesmerized by the top three buttons on her blouse—they are open, and you can see the milkiness of her throat and neck.
Daddy’s bustling around, pouring drinks for everybody. “Lana, what can I get you?”
“Oh, just seltzer water for me, Billy,” Mrs. Honeycutt says, smiling slightly. Her teeth look like they’ve been dipped in tobacco juice. I bet she’s a smoker. To Mama, she confides, “I’m watching my weight.”
“Of course,” Mama says, smiling back. Then she lifts up her wineglass and says, “Cheers to that, Lana.”
Mrs. Honeycutt titters, and Daddy laughs, too loudly.
“That’s a gorgeous bracelet, Lana,” Mama says, leaning closer. “Wherever did you get it from?”
Beaming, Mrs. Honeycutt says, “I ordered it from the Avon catalogue last Christmas. Did you know they sell jewelry, too?”
“Well, no, I sure didn’t,” Mama says. She turns to us then. “Girls, did you know that?”
Celia and I murmur that no, we did not. We exchange uneasy glances across the room. Then Daddy starts on about some project at work, and Mama goes to the kitchen to check on the turkey. She is gone a long time. When she comes back, she says just a little longer.
We sit in the den for over an hour. I can hear Micah’s stomach grumbling from across the room. Celia hears it too, and she presses her lips together tight to keep from smiling. I can’t help it; I snicker out loud.
Daddy shoots me a warning look, but I can tell from the way his eyes are crinkling that he’s trying not to snicker too.
By the time we get to the dining room table, we’re all starved. Daddy says grace, and then everybody tucks into the food. The turkey’s a little dry, but with gravy on top, who can really tell? Tastes fine to me. The potatoes are cold from sitting out so long, but you just pour on some of that hot steaming gravy and it heats them right up.
“Grace, everything is just wonderful,” Mrs. Honeycutt gushes, dabbing a napkin to the corners of her mouth.
Mr. Honeycutt says, “Yeah, you are really somethin,’ Grace. You have really outdone yourself. Everything’s delicious. Right, son?”
Micah grunts and shovels a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
“Micah, are you and my Celia in any of the same classes at school?” Daddy asks, gnawing on a turkey leg. He looks like he should be wearing a robe and a garland on his head like the Ghost of Christmas Present.
“Daddy, I’m a junior,” Celia says, rolling her eyes. She looks at him like, I can’t believe you’re my father. Celia can say a lot with her eyes.
“Well, I know that, Celia,” Daddy says, turkey leg midair. “Of course I know that.”
Rolling her eyes again, she says, “So Micah’s a freshman.”
“Oh,” Daddy says.
Mama snorts loudly. She’s not eating much of anything. But she’s drinking enough for everybody at the table. I think she’s been drinking all day.
I say, “Well, Micah could be in accelerated classes, Celia. It’s not impossible for the two of you to be in some of the same classes. Like, when I’m a freshman, I might be able to take—”
Celia kicks me under the table, hard. I stop talking and stuff some more turkey in my mouth.
To Micah, Daddy says, “Have some of that good dark meat, son. It’s not as dry.” He piles turkey on Micah’s plate.
Mama says, “More wine anyone?”
“I’d love some, Grace,” Mr. Honeycutt says, pulling at his shirt collar. He’s sweating, and his face is getting redder by the minute.
Mama smiles at Mr. Honeycutt like he is the best-looking man in the room and not the color of a rotten tomato. She pours him a glass of wine, smiling all the while. Then she fills her own glass to the top, and drains half of it in one swallow.
“Hon, I think you may have had enough to drink tonight,” Daddy says, forcing a jovial laugh. My stomach tightens, and suddenly my appetite is gone. I feel like I’m gonna throw up. It’s one thing for Mama and Daddy to snipe at each other when it’s just the four of us, but it’s a whole other thing to have an audience. I wish the Honeycutts would disappear and take me with them.
The whole table has gone silent, waiting for Mama to answer. The Honeycutts are staring down at their plates, pushing food around. I guess they aren’t used to a Wilcox kind of Thanksgiving. Celia and I are plenty used to it. We look at each other from across the table, and with her eyes, she says, I hate them both.
At this moment, I do too.
It feels like hours before Mama says, “Oh, I haven’t had nearly enough, darlin’.” She smiles and lifts her glass to Daddy. “Not nearly.”
Just then, we all cringe. Even Micah.
I think I liked Thanksgiving dinner better when it was KFC.
