The Thanksgiving That Almost Happened, Then Never Happened: Part 5
Thursday, November 27th - Thanksgiving Day (The Ashes) The day does not explode. It just sits there and waits.
The table was a masterpiece of denial. Brenda Carter had outdone herself. A golden-brown turkey, glazed to perfection. A honey-baked ham studded with cloves. Candied yams swimming in butter and brown sugar. Collard greens with smoked turkey necks. Macaroni and cheese with a crust that crackled. A pyramid of fluffy, white rolls. It was a feast fit for a king. A king whose entire lineage had just been wiped from the earth.
There were six place settings. Only five were occupied.
Brenda and Willis sat at the heads of the table, dressed in their Sunday best. They looked like wax figures, their faces stiff and unnaturally still. The silence in the room was a physical presence, thick and heavy as a blanket of snow.
To one side sat Barbara, Bobby's wife, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She wore a frilly, inappropriate pink dress. Next to her, her son Brandon, fidgeting with his napkin ring, sensing the cataclysmic adult tension.
To the other side sat Wynona, Wallace's wife. Her eyes were two red-raw slits in a pale, puffy face. She hadn't spoken, hadn't made a sound since she'd arrived alone an hour ago, simply taking the seat she always had.
Next to her sat William, Wanda's husband. He stared at his hands as if he'd never seen them before. His posture was a monument to defeat.
And in the dead center of this magnificent, tragic spread, positioned with cruel prominence between the turkey and the ham, sat a single, hideous bowl. Barbara's potato salad. A grotesque mosaic of boiled potatoes, diced hot dogs, raw broccoli florets, and shredded carrots, all bound together by a glistening, gelatinous white mayo. It was an abomination. A perfect, inedible monument to the day.
No one had touched a thing. The feast was cooling, congealing, dying right there on the table.
Brenda reached out a trembling hand and took Willis's. Her voice, when it came, was a broken whisper, stripped of all its former force.
"Willis… pray."
He nodded, a slow, mechanical movement. They bowed their heads.
"Heavenly Father," Willis began, his voice a low, cracked rumble. "We… we come to you on this day of thanks. We ask you… we ask you to…" He faltered, his throat working. "Just bring our family together. Heal these wounds. We don't… we don't understand what's happening, Lord. We just… we ask for a miracle."
Ding-dong.
The sound was like a gunshot in the silent room.
Their heads snapped up. A flicker of insane, impossible hope lit their faces. Brenda's hand flew to her chest. Willis looked toward the foyer, his eyes wide. Was it Bobby? Had Bella come after all? Had Wallace and Wanda had a change of heart?
Willis pushed back his chair, the sound deafening. He walked to the door, his steps slow, heavy with a desperate, last-ditch anticipation. He took a deep breath, his hand hovering over the knob, and opened it.
A young man in an Amazon vest stood there, holding a small, brown box. He was smiling, oblivious.
"Hey there! Package for Carter? Happy Thanksgiving!"
Willis just stared. He took the box numbly. The driver gave a little wave and jogged back to his van.
Willis closed the door. The deadbolt slid back into place with a final, definitive thunk. He didn't turn around. He just stood there in the foyer, holding the box, his shoulders slumping in absolute surrender.
He walked back into the dining room. He didn't look at anyone. He placed the unopened box on the sideboard, next to a framed photo of his four children, smiling.
He resumed his seat.
Brandon, who'd been fidgeting with his napkin ring throughout the prayer, finally spoke. His voice was small, confused. "Grandma? Where's everybody?"
Brenda's face crumpled. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.
Barbara put her hand over Brandon's. "Hush, baby. Just... hush."
Brandon looked around at the adults, their faces broken and strange, and he understood in the way children do that something terrible had happened. Something nobody was going to explain. He went quiet.
Brenda was crying silently, tears carving paths through her foundation. Wynona let out a wet, choked sniffle. William cleared his throat, a meaningless sound in the void. Barbara looked like she wanted to be absorbed into the floorboards.
William, perhaps out of obligation, perhaps out of a desperate need to do something, reached for a serving spoon. He scooped a small portion of Barbara's potato salad onto his plate. The mayo made a wet, sucking sound as it released from the bowl.
Everyone watched him.
He lifted a forkful to his mouth. Chewed once. His face went blank. He set the fork down carefully, like it might explode.
He didn't take another bite.
The potato salad sat there on his plate, a small, glistening failure.
Brenda looked at the feast she'd spent two days preparing. The turkey she'd brined and basted. The ham she'd studded with cloves one by one. The mac and cheese she'd made from scratch because Bella always loved her mac and cheese.
She picked up her fork. Put it down. Picked it up again.
"I should've just ordered pizza," she said quietly. To no one. To everyone.
Willis reached for her hand. She let him take it.
They sat there. The five of them. As the food went cold and the light outside dimmed and Thanksgiving ended without ever really beginning.
The Thanksgiving that almost happened, then never happened.
FADE TO BLACK.
