The Thanksgiving That Almost Happened, Then Never Happened: Part 1
Sunday, November 23rd - The Spark. It started as a menu call. It ended with four siblings making eye contact with their own lives for the first time.
The FaceTime connects in that glitchy, delayed way that makes everyone talk over each other for the first ten seconds. Bobby appears first, sitting at his desk, tie loosened, looking like a man who's been staring at his computer screen for hours. Behind him, the office is too clean. No papers. No clutter. Just empty space.
Bella pops in next, kitchen visible behind her, a wine glass in her hand. It's the middle of the day but nobody mentions it yet.
Wallace's screen loads. He's on his couch, grey walls, minimal furniture. He looks like he hasn't slept in days.
Wanda joins last, leaning close to the camera, her eyes a little too bright, a little too sharp.
WANDA: Alright, you miserable fucks. Let's get this over with. Thanksgiving menu. I'm making my potato salad.
Dead air. Then, simultaneous laughter. Brutal, mocking laughter.
BELLA: Oh, you mean your mayonnaise soup with potato chunks? Last year that shit sat on the table looking like something they scrape out of a colostomy bag. Mom tried to serve it and the spoon stood straight up. It had the structural integrity of your marriage, Wanda.
BOBBY: I saw Brandon try a bite. Kid's face went through all five stages of grief in three seconds. You trying to traumatize my son? That your goal?
WANDA: Fuck both of you! My potato salad has more flavor than your entire sad, beige lives. Bella, you brought a store-bought pie last year and tried to pass it off as homemade. We saw the Pillsbury logo still stamped in the crust, you lazy bitch.
BELLA: And your point? At least mine was EDIBLE. Unlike your salad, which tasted like boiled ass and regret. Besides, some of us have actual families to manage. Not just a husband you clearly can't stand.
WALLACE: Oh here we go. "Bella's Life Is So Hard" hour. Please, tell us again about the burden of living in a McMansion paid for by Brad's... what does he call it? "Creative accounting"?
Bobby's jaw tightens but he doesn't say anything. Just reaches off-screen and there's the clink of glass on glass.
BELLA: Watch your mouth, Wallace. At least Brad's "creative accounting" pays for my Mercedes and Billy's private school. What's Wynona driving these days? That 2008 Corolla with the duct-taped bumper? Your whole life looks one missed paycheck away from repo.
WANDA: She's not wrong. Your living room looks like a waiting room at a free clinic. That grey paint gives me depression just looking at it.
WALLACE: My house is clean, unlike your life, Wanda. How many crystals and sage bundles you gotta buy before you realize you're just a basic, unhappy bitch with a maxed-out credit card?
WANDA: At least I FEEL my feelings, you emotionally constipated fuck. You walk around looking like you're constantly smelling your own fart. You grew up on Tang and government cheese like the rest of us. You ain't special. You're just sad.
BOBBY: Both of you shut up. This is about the goddamn potato salad. Barbara's bringing it this year.
Profound, horrified silence.
BELLA: ...Bobby, that's a war crime. I saw what she brought to the church potluck. She put raisins in mac and cheese. RAISINS. The woman is a menace.
WANDA: She makes casseroles with canned tuna and Cool Whip! You let that woman near potatoes and I'm calling CPS on your whole bland-ass family!
BOBBY: Her potato salad is fine. It's creative. She puts hot dogs in it.
WALLACE: "Creative"? Last time Barbara "got creative" she made Jell-O with hot dogs and cottage cheese. You that pussy-whipped you can't tell her no?
BOBBY: You want to talk about wives, Wallace? Where the fuck is Wynona? You're sitting there looking jumpier than a meth head at a police convention. She finally get tired of your broke, miserable, pretentious ass?
It's a direct hit. Wallace flinches.
WALLACE: You don't know shit about my marriage. At least I can look at myself in the mirror. You sold your soul to a company that would replace you tomorrow and piss on your grave. How's that feel, Bobby? Being a placeholder? Does Barbara kiss you with that corporate dick-sucking mouth?
Bobby's hand tightens around his glass. He doesn't respond. Can't respond.
BELLA: You're a placeholder in your own life, Wallace! You and Wynona have less chemistry than my kitchen sponge. We all see it.
WALLACE: Okay, Bella. Let's talk about happy. Let's talk about Brad the Embezzler. The whole family knows he's stealing and you're just sitting there playing dumb wife. You're gonna be holding his hand when they put the cuffs on, you pathetic…
BELLA: YOU LEAVE BRAD OUT OF THIS!
WANDA: Why? Your husband's a crook, Bella! A white-collar thief! You're one audit away from a studio apartment!
BOBBY: WANDA, SHUT YOUR MOUTH!
WANDA: NO! AND WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU WHEN MOM WAS IN THE HOSPITAL, BOBBY? "Too busy with work"? Or just too ashamed of where you came from? You and Barbara with your white-bread life, your boring kid, your sterile house… you think you're better than us? You're the saddest one of all!
They're all screaming. A wall of noise and rage and decades of resentment.
Wallace gestures wildly, trying to yell over them. His phone wobbles. The camera tilts.
And there, in the background, a bedroom door opens.
A man walks out. Black. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants low on his hips. He stretches, back to the camera, muscles shifting. Scratches his chest. Yawns. Turns.
He sees Wallace on the phone, face still twisted in rage, and smiles. That lazy, intimate, "what's all the noise?" smile.
He walks toward the couch. Leans down. Comes back up pulling a grey t-shirt over his head.
Bobby sees him first.
His face goes slack. The glass in his hand tilts, forgotten.
Bella follows Bobby's gaze. Her wine glass freezes halfway to her lips.
Wanda's hand clamps over her mouth.
The screaming stops.
Dead silence.
Wallace sees their faces. Whips his head around. Sees Julian standing there, now dressed, looking confused.
All color drains from Wallace's face.
BELLA: Wallace... what the fuck? Who is that?
WALLACE: What? Who? You saw nothing! Mind your business!
BOBBY: We all saw him, man. We ALL saw him.
WALLACE: It's not… He's my trainer! We were working out!
WANDA: Oh my God! Wallace.
The screen goes black.
WALLACE HAS LEFT THE FACETIME.
Bobby, Bella, and Wanda stare at their own reflections in the empty squares where Wallace used to be.
Nobody says anything.
Bobby's the first to move. He reaches up. Ends the call.
His screen goes dark.
Then Bella's.
Then Wanda's.
Silence.
