This Glittering World (9 page)

L
ong ago, when Ben’s life was still whole, Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday. Every year, his mother started cooking the night before Thanksgiving. His father would take him and Dusty to the movies while she stayed at home rolling out piecrusts and prepping all of the casseroles and salads. By the time they got home, his mother would have flour-covered hands and flushed cheeks, and the entire house would smell like ginger and cinnamon and nutmeg.

The next morning, these smells would linger, but the stronger smell of sage and thyme and the cooking turkey would prevail. His aunt Catherine and uncle Woody from South Carolina would arrive by ten o’clock with their cousins, Jo-Jo and Peanut, spilling out of the back of their station wagon. Jo-Jo was Ben’s age, and Peanut was the baby. While the grown-ups milled around in the kitchen, the kids would watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, eating Krispy Kreme Doughnuts on the living room floor.

Later, when the football games came on, Jo-Jo and Ben would relinquish the living room to Ben’s dad and Uncle Woody and disappear into the basement to play with Ben’s collection of Matchbox cars or the giant laundry basket full of LEGOs. And Dusty and Peanut would play with pots and pans in the kitchen while Ben’s mom and Aunt Cathy gossiped and peeled potatoes and basted the turkey. Uncle Woody and Ben’s dad would drink beer and snack on the sweet sugarcoated peanuts that came in a blue can. Ben would grab handfuls of them, and that sweet taste would linger on his fingers for hours.

If it was warm enough outside, he and Jo-Jo would play in the tree house his dad had built in the backyard, leaping off the wooden deck into the musty piles of leaves below. They were pirates. Soldiers. Indian warriors.

After Dusty died, Aunt Catherine and Uncle Woody kept coming for a year or two, but it never felt right. His mother would cry in the kitchen, and Jo-Jo and Ben forgot how to play. The floorboards of the tree house rotted out, and his mother said it was too dangerous. And then his aunt and uncle moved to Colorado and it was too far to travel.

In college, Ben spent Thanksgivings with his mom, but she didn’t cook anymore. They usually met in the city at U-topia, eating crab cakes and seafood bisque. Sara had never cooked Thanksgiving dinner. Usually they went down to Phoenix to be with her family or stayed home and celebrated with friends.

So when Ben woke up on Thursday morning, the smells confused him. Suddenly, he was six years old again, padding sleepy-eyed to the kitchen, woken by the pungent smell of stuffing and pumpkin pie.

“Hey,” Ben said.

Sara was already dressed, a blue-and-white-checked apron tied tightly around her soft waist. There was a simmering pot on the stove with melted butter and sage and thyme. Her mother’s cookbook, the one she’d given Sara last Christmas, was open on the counter.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Actually good,” she said. “I had some ginger ale and crackers, and I’m ready to go. Will you help me get the turkey out?” she asked, kissing Ben’s cheek.

“Sure,” he said.

“And thank you,” she said. “The house looks great.”

Ben had stayed up until midnight while Sara slept, picking up the clutter, scrubbing the counters and floors and toilet. The only thing he hadn’t done was vacuum, because he didn’t want to wake her. The trash was tied into neat bundles on the back deck. The muddy paw prints on the front window were just a memory.

Ben opened the fridge and pulled out the giant turkey, setting it into the sink.

“Wow!” Sara said. “It’s huge!! We’ll have leftovers for a month.”

She peered at the open cookbook, tracing the poultry chart with her finger. “Okay, so this is a twenty pounder; it looks like we’ll need about six or seven hours. That means if I can get it in the oven by ten, we’ll eat around five. Perfect.” She smiled at him, and he suddenly felt he’d done something right.

Sara reached into the sink and started to tear off the plastic wrapper, when she stopped.

“It’s frozen,” she said.

“Yeah?” Ben said.

Sara looked at him, her smile fading. “Ben, I said to get a
fresh
turkey.”

“What’s the difference?” he asked, knowing from her face that there must be a
big
difference.

“It’s
frozen,
Ben. It won’t thaw in time. It would take days for this thing to defrost.” Sara started pacing the kitchen, wringing her hands. The butter on the stove top was starting to burn. “Ben, what are we going to do?”

“Can you put it in the microwave?”

“Does this thing look like it will fit in our microwave?” she said, gesturing to the microwave that had seen nothing but popcorn and pot pies.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll just go to the store and get a fresh turkey. No big deal.”

“Have you looked outside, Ben?” Sara’s voice was getting shrill.

Ben went to the living room. The shades were still drawn. He pulled them back. It was a total whiteout. He couldn’t even see his truck in the driveway.

“By the time you get the driveway shoveled out, it’ll be too late.”

“Well, maybe they won’t be able to make it,” Ben said, and was ashamed at how his heart thrilled at the prospect.

“They’ll make it,” she hissed. “They called from Camp Verde before you got up. They’re on their way.”

And Ben knew that nothing would stop this day from happening. Not a turkey that wouldn’t defrost. Not a blizzard. Not his own sheer will.

B
en liked Sara’s parents. Frank, her father, was one of those boisterous types, the exact opposite of his own father, who was always so serious. Quiet. Reserved. Frank was a friendly kind of guy, a man’s man with a firm handshake. A man who always looked you in the eye, who always told you the truth. He was honest to a fault. He didn’t censor himself, no matter the company, which, though it made Sara cringe and his wife blush, Ben found refreshing. And Jeanine. Jeanine was like Sara. Or like Sara used to be: easy, breezy, unconcerned. She was sixty but looked fifty, with butter-colored hair and smooth skin. She smelled like summertime all the time and listened when you talked to her. She had been a nurse when she met Frank, but she quit when Sara’s brother was born, to stay home with the kids. Then Frank’s business took off, and she never went back.

“Dr. Bailey,”
Frank said as he opened the door. His face was red, his eyes a bit bloodshot. He owned five car dealerships but no longer worked the floor. He spent most of his time golfing. He had a permanent sunburn and refused to wear sunglasses. He thought they made people seem shifty. “Helluva storm,” he said. “If this keeps up, we might need to spend the night.”

Jeanine was brushing the new snow off her coat, which Sara took from her. “Hi, Mommy,” she said, squeezing her. Ben felt a pang as he watched Sara’s eyes fill with tears.

“Well, we’ve run into a bit of a problem with the turkey,” Ben offered. Might as well get this out of the way as soon as possible. “I screwed up and brought home a frozen one. And it’s still frozen.”

Sara winced.

“Oh no!” Jeanine laughed.

“Well, hell’s bells!” Frank said. “Looks like you and I have got to go hunting!” he said, smacking Ben on the back.

Ben’s eyes widened.

“What, you never been turkey hunting?”

Ben looked at Sara for help.

Jeanine hit Frank in the arm. “You’re scaring him, Frank.”

“I’m just joshing you,” he said. “We’ll go hunt us down a nice rotisserie chicken at the Safeway. Nobody’ll be able to tell the difference.”

Ben felt his shoulders relax. For a minute he’d actually tried to prepare himself to go out in the wilderness with Frank and the shotguns he kept strapped to the back of his truck. Alone. With Frank. And his guns.

“I’ve got four-wheel drive, chains if we need ‘em,” Frank said.

Ben grabbed his coat and followed him out the door.

T
hey could have gone to the Bashas’ just down the street, but Frank had some issue with Bashas2019;, the origin of which was probably forgotten, and he insisted they drive all the way into town to the Safeway. Snow was coming down now so hard and so fast it was almost disorienting. It was hard to differentiate the earth from the sky. The snow plows hadn’t even been by to clear the parking lot, which was empty, save for a couple of cars that must have belonged to the employees. They slammed their doors shut and trudged through the snow to the store, which glowed like a neon oasis in a desert of white.

Inside, holiday music was playing, Christmas carols already, and there were signs of Christmas everywhere. Poinsettias and Christmas lights and mechanical Santas. Frank led the way to the deli and ordered up the biggest chicken they had.

“Not quite a turkey, but it’s a bird,” he said, taking the plastic container from the girl behind the counter. “Fowl’s fowl.”

Ben nodded.

In the checkout line, Ben got out his wallet to pay.

Frank shook his head and pulled his own battered wallet out of his pocket. “I’m sure Sara’s already made you pay for this one enough,” he said, chuckling.

Ben didn’t know whether to laugh or not, so he just smiled and nodded his head.

“Women,” Frank said. “Can’t live with them, can’t bury them in the backyard without the neighbors seeing.”

Ben grimaced but smiled.

In the truck, Frank turned the ignition and sent the wipers flying through the inch of fresh snow that had fallen while they were in the store. He turned to Ben as they pulled into the driveway. Sara was standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips.

Frank leaned over and whispered, “I know you fucked up the turkey, but I’ve got some Wild Turkey in the glove box. I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be a long day.”

Dinner was excruciating.

Sara was trying too hard, stumbling and bumbling, apologetically plopping huge spoonfuls of lumpy sweet potatoes onto everyone’s plates, apologizing for her cooking, apologizing for their lack of matching dishes. And he could tell she was nauseous, that all of the smells that he loved were putting her pretty close to the edge. For the first time in a while, Ben actually felt sorry for her.

Jeanine piped up around midway through the meal, as if on some terrible cue, “Oh, honey, I completely forgot to tell you that Ginger is getting married this summer. Some guy she met in San Diego. I think he’s in the navy.”

Sara stared at the small piles of green beans and mashed potatoes and the rotisserie chicken on her plate.

“Sare-Bear,” Frank said, nudging Ben, “I’m telling you, if you need me to lasso this one here, hog-tie him, and get him to the chapel, I know a rodeo guy or two.”

Thanks, Frank.

Sara pushed her food around her plate some more. She was waiting for Ben. He knew this was
his
cue, and he had missed it. The stage was empty, and he was still standing in the wings. The audience was growing uncomfortable.

Sara looked up from her food, and Ben could see sweat beading up on her forehead. She took a deep breath and her eyes widened with panic. And then she was up and running to the bathroom, covering her mouth with her hand, gagging.

Jeanine excused herself and followed close behind. “Honey? You okay?” She disappeared into the bathroom with Sara, the door closing behind her.

Frank and Ben looked at each other.

“Guess the buns are in the oven?” Frank asked.

Ben sighed.

Frank winked and held up the empty bun basket. When he got up and went into the kitchen, Ben put his head in his hands.

After a couple of minutes, Frank came back into the dining room and tossed a roll onto Ben’s plate. He plopped down into his chair and reached for the butter. “Well, if that doesn’t get you to the church on time, I don’t know what will.”

L
ater, with the cat now out of the bag and roaming quietly around the house, Sara napped in the bedroom and Jeanine cleaned the kitchen. Ben found the Arizona State game on TV, and Frank slapped Ben on the back, sitting down on the couch, gesturing for him to join him there.

“If you’re worried about us being pissed off, don’t be. I knocked up Jeanine before we got married too. And that was almost thirty years ago. Important thing is that baby. The wedding will happen in its own good time.”

Ben cringed at how trusting Frank was. How little he knew. That Ben’s very presence here was some twisted sort of miracle.

“Too much fuss made over one day if you ask me,” Frank said. “Jeanine and I got married by the justice of the peace. Drove to LA for our honeymoon. And look at us.”

Ben felt awful as Frank smiled and patted his back again. “You’ll make a good dad, Ben. A really good dad.”

B
en’s father. Ben hardly ever thought about his father anymore. He was living in DC still; he had gotten remarried when Ben was in college. He was teaching at George Washington still, and his new wife worked in the Human Resources Department. She had a shrill voice and candy-colored fingernails. She had three children, all younger than Ben, one of whom lived with them. During college, Ben and his father would meet for lunch once a month somewhere on the Foggy Bottom campus (his father never came to Georgetown), awkwardly catching up over overpriced risotto or Caesar salads. He paid Ben’s tuition bills but never called him. Years later, when Ben’s mother got sick, he’d ask about her but never once got in the car and went to Maryland to see her. Not even when she was in the hospital. And after she died, Ben had grown so angry with his father, for his absence while his mother, a woman Ben’s father had spent fifteen years with, slowly fell apart, he could barely stand it. He couldn’t reconcile the father he’d had, that he and Dusty had had, with this new man, this man who didn’t cry at her funeral and only shook Ben’s hand before driving away from the cemetery.

Ben preferred to hold on to the memory of the father from his childhood. The father who was quiet but
present.
A fixture. He remembered sitting side by side in the living room at night, each absorbed in a book. He remembered his father silently tossing a baseball with him for hours in the street outside, even after the sun fell behind the trees, and streetlights clicked on. He remembered Sunday mornings when he and Dusty used to lie on the floor, poring over the funny papers while his father read the
Post.
He was there. On weekends, on cross-country road trips during the long summers when he wasn’t teaching, across from him in the boat on Lake Accotink as they cast their lines into the water. There was something comforting in the predictability of him, in his hushed but certain presence.

His mother was the one who provided the sound track. The laughter, the music. The smell of coffee and strawberry pancakes, the gentle kisses on cuts and scrapes. She sang along with the radio in the car and listened to all of his and Dusty’s silly knock-knock jokes. She was the one who sat with them at the kitchen table, helping Ben with his homework, coloring with Dusty in her coloring books. She was the one waiting to pick them up from school every day. She was the one who chose the dress that Dusty would wear when she was buried. The one who held Ben all night when he awoke dreaming of the accident, dreaming of Dusty still alive. And his father checked out.

He just slipped away. And he was so quiet about it, you might not have noticed at first. Maybe he’d been planning this the whole time he’d been with them, this disappearing act. Perhaps he’d been practicing his magic at night while they were sleeping. Because one Sunday morning, Ben woke up and he was just gone, and he might not have noticed if he hadn’t seen the newspaper still lying on the lawn.

After he was gone, when Ben thought of his father, he liked to think about the slow grin when he reeled in a fish, the quiet chuckle of something he read in the paper, the sound of the ball hitting his leather mitt.

Ben couldn’t understand then how you just walk away from a life, especially a life you’d made.