Jennifer Greene - Cupid’s Confederates

Had her heart picked up a murmur during the past five days? It just wouldn’t beat evenly. What if she said the wrong thing now? So she said nothing, but browned the ham, whipped up the eggs, then hurried to the opposite counter to finish chopping. She reminded herself to melt some butter in the microwave to toss in with the bread crumbs. If the dressing didn’t get packed in the turkey, the turkey wouldn’t get cooked, the people wouldn’t get fed and she couldn’t kick them all out to talk to Zach. She could feel his eyes on her back, and her mind reeled through a practice run of what she wanted to tell him. So much, so very much, and it was all lumped in her throat.

The eggs started bubbling. Bolting back to the stove, she stirred like mad, and heard the unwelcome sound of water running upstairs. Her mother was up. This wasn’t the time to try to talk to Zach anyway, yet she couldn’t possibly keep on another minute with that horrible lump in her throat. She flipped off the stove burner, slid his breakfast onto a plate, nervously rubbed her hands on her robe, heard the ping of the microwave timer, poured melted butter into the bread crumbs, told herself to stop all this racing, and set the fork and knife and bowl down in front of him, perching on the edge of the opposite chair at the same time.

“Look, Zach,” she started unhappily.

“Happy Thanksgiving, you two,” Elizabeth chirped brightly from the doorway, and bent to give first her daughter and then her son-in-law a peck on the cheek.

Bett lurched back up, her total frustration masked by an innocuous smile. “Sleep well, Mom?”

“Wonderfully. Better than I have in weeks-at least until I looked out the window and saw the snow. I just hate winter, the thought of driving on icy roads. Now, that’s one beautiful turkey,” she complimented her daughter.

“Yes,” Bett said distractedly.

“You should have woken me. You know I would have-”

“Bett.” Zach’s low voice somehow reverberated within her amid her mother’s bright chatter.

“-helped you with the stuffing. We’ll have to get the turkey in awfully early if we’re going to have it done by three. I thought I’d wear the lavender print, though-”

She heard him. That was just it-how often hadn’t she heard him in the past few months of frantically following her mother’s conversations? Her eyes locked on his face, and she was startled to glimpse the first natural smile she’d seen on his lips in days. She savored a fervent hope of a thaw in the frigid barrier between them for several seconds before she noticed where his hands were motioning.

Elizabeth, unfortunately, had already turned around. “What on earth is Zach doing with the stuffing?”

“Nothing,” Bett said stiffly. She whisked the bowl back to the counter and put his plate of cooling eggs on the table in front of him. Brilliant, Bett, she thought morosely, thoroughly demoralized. Maybe she should offer up a prayer that at least she hadn’t stuffed the turkey with scrambled eggs.

Her spirits rallied when she saw her mother zeroing in on the turkey. “Nothing doing,” Bett said firmly. “Mom, you’ve been cooking for us for weeks. Now, I know that’s been your choice, but it’s my turn. Just sit down, and I’ll make you some breakfast.”

“Brittany, I am hardly going to leave you with all this to do by yourself.”

“Sure you are.” Bett steered a cup of coffee toward her mother’s hand. “Think of it as a vacation day. A ‘feet up’ relaxer.”

“Well…”

Elizabeth was persuaded to sit down, bribed with a slice of peach coffee cake. Bett whirled back to her turkey, her mind rushing through the morning’s organizing of recipes and cooking. The menu included her whole-grain zucchini bread, honey-glazed carrots, the sinfully rich coeur à la crème-roughly translated as “cream of the heart.” She didn’t dare look at Zach. He was undoubtedly going to see this morning as yet another instance of Bett slaving in the kitchen over her mother’s choices. They were hers, and it mattered so very much that he understand that. Chop, chop, chop. Even her cleaver was picking up determination.

Her mother suddenly was hovering over her shoulder, the coffee cake obviously having exhausted its appeal. “I’ve always loved Thanksgiving,” Elizabeth mentioned idly.

“Me, too.”

“I could do that for you.”

“I’d rather do it myself, Mom.” Bett poured the last cup of chopped ingredients into the huge bowl and started stirring.

“You’re going to add raisins, aren’t you? Your father always liked raisins in the stuffing.”

“Actually, no,” Bett said weakly.

There was a moment of silence for this bit of heresy. Bett spared a longing glance for her still-full, now-cold, cup of coffee on the counter. She should have managed at least one full quota of caffeine before anyone was up. Why was hindsight so cheap? And why did this whole scene feel like Custer’s Last Stand?

“I think,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully, “you should add raisins. I always do.” Bett felt her mother shift restlessly behind her. “Actually, Brittany, you should go up and get dressed. I could finish the stuffing for you, and then later you wouldn’t have to be in such a hurry…”

“That’s okay, Mom. There’s plenty of time.”

“You’re not going to add raisins.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “That’s up to you, of course. It never occurred to me that you didn’t like them. You never said anything, all the years you lived at home. And every single Thanksgiving…”

The pause was Bett’s cue to give in. Not that there would be an argument if she didn’t. Just very gentle needling, perhaps a sentimental blur of tears in her mother’s eyes for scorned traditions, and the unconscious message that Bett was doing something wrong. Like a sponge, Bett had always soaked up guilt. Obviously, there was something terribly wrong with her for wanting to make stuffing without raisins.

Raisins?

Bett suddenly felt sick. She’d planned a tactful confrontation with her mom, but, truthfully, over something far more heroic than dried fruit.

“Each to her own taste,” she said mildly, thinking that perhaps it was easier to start with the little things. In your house, your way, darling. In my house, mine. The first bridge was just saying it aloud.

She glanced over her shoulder after a moment or two. Her mother was staring at her with an odd expression as Bett stuffed the raisinless mixture into the bird.

“I have a story to tell you,” Bett continued cheerfully. “The very first year we were married, I cooked Thanksgiving turkey for Zach. I got out two cookbooks and memorized the instructions and told Zach I didn’t want any help. I must have basted the thing every two minutes; it was a miracle it ever cooked, but that’s neither here nor there. You never let me in the kitchen as a kid, Mom, more’s the pity. I didn’t realize the turkey was…um…hollow inside. Much less than there was anything inside the holes…”

Her mother’s mouth was slowly starting to curve into a smile; so was Bett’s. “I called Zach in to carve when it was done, so proud of myself. He said he’d first get the stuffing out for me, so out came the heart and gizzard and neck and all, still in the paper bag. Very well cooked they were. So was the paper bag. What on earth is that? I asked him…”

Elizabeth started laughing. So did Bett. Bridge two, she thought wryly. Mom, I would like to announce that you have a daughter capable of doing some very foolish things. I don’t want your damn approval. I just want to share.

Her mother’s eyes were sparkling with laughter. “Why didn’t you tell me that before? Sweetheart, did I ever tell you the story of when I was first married…”