Anne Tyler - A Patchwork Planet

“She was pregnant just a while ago. And now she’s had her baby.”

“See?” I said. “This is why I should have got a car of my own. Something used, I could have bought, with the rest of my Sting Ray money. Instead I’m having to split this dratted truck.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” Martine said.

“Besides, a truck’s a problem for old folks to climb into. It’s not appropriate! That high-up seat, and Everett’s silly fur dice—”

All at once, Martine reached over and swiped the dice off the mirror in one quick motion. Just snapped the string that held them, tossed the dice in the air, caught the two of them one-handed, and stuffed them into her jacket pocket.

“Satisfied?” she asked me.

“Well, hey,” I said.

“You think it’s easy for me, letting you keep the truck at your place? Begging you for a ride anytime I need to go somewhere? But I don’t have any choice! I don’t come from a fat-cat family! I can’t just waltz out and buy myself a car if I decide a truck’s not ‘appropriate’!”

“You don’t need to bite my head off,” I said.

We had reached her house by now, and I pulled over to the curb. But Martine stayed where she was, poking her sharp yellow face into mine. “I don’t know why I bother hanging out with you,” she said. “You’re sarcastic and moody and negative. You think just because you’re good-looking you can take up with any woman you want. You think you’re so understanding and sweet with those poor old-lady clients, but really you just … hit and run! You have no staying power! You couldn’t stick around even if you tried!”

I was astounded. I said, “Huh?” I said, “Where did all this come from?” And when she didn’t answer, I said, “You’re the one who fixed it so you’d have to rely on me for your rides.”

“Now, that is just exactly what I’m talking about,” she said. Making no sense whatsoever.

Then she jumped out of the truck and slammed the door hard behind her.

I took off, with a screech of my tires. I went on fuming aloud as if she were still there. “Maniac,” I said. “Lunatic.” I asked, “Didn’t I say all along this truck scheme would be a pain?”

Anyone who heard me would have thought I was demented.

“WE ARE PROBABLY the only family in America eating a potluck Thanksgiving dinner,” my mother said, gazing around the table.

“Oh, surely that can’t be true,” Gram said. “Good heavens! Many’s the time, in the old days, I was asked to bring my marshmallow-yam casserole when Aunt Mary had the dinner at her house.”

“That’s one kind of potluck, Mother. The organized kind, where the hostess assigns a dish to each guest. But I’m talking about the other kind: catch as catch can. Pot luck , with the emphasis on ‘luck.’ Who else would be doing this?”

Mom’s own dish was a redundancy; that’s why she was annoyed. She had made one of her famous pumpkin chiffon pies, which turned out to be what Wicky had made too. (Using Mom’s recipe. I could see how that might have been a faux pas.) Also, there was no turkey. At Jeff’s insistence, he and Wicky were hosting the dinner this year, and so everybody assumed that they would supply the turkey. But they hadn’t. Wicky said her oven was too small for a turkey that would feed ten people. It seemed all her efforts had gone instead into the decorations: twists of crepe paper in harvest gold and orange festooning the dining room, and an entire family of Pilgrims marching the length of the table, with lighted candlewicks sticking up out of their heads. Plus, at the start of the meal she had made us all join hands and sing “Come Ye Thankful People, Come.” Except that she and Sophia were the only ones who knew the words beyond the very first line.

Our menu was: two pumpkin chiffon pies, Gram’s marshmallow-yam casserole, Sophia’s Crock-Pot Applesauce Cake, and a salad that Opal had tossed with a vinaigrette dressing. This was nice for Opal, because we were all so glad to see something nonsweet that her contribution was the hit of the day.

Me, I’d chosen the easy way out and brought four bottles of wine. I guess I could have complained myself, since I had specifically purchased a wine designed to complement turkey. But hey. This way, I figured, I would probably get to carry a couple of bottles home with me.

“I did inquire,” my mother was saying. “I asked Wicky at least two weeks ago: ‘Wicky, what category of food should I bring?’ But, ‘Oh, whatever you want,’ she said. ‘I’m sure it will all work out.’ ” Mom trilled her fingers in a breezy manner, apparently mimicking Wicky. “ ‘We’ll each of us just do our own thing ,’ was what she told me. ‘That will be much more fun, don’t you feel?’”

I’d have taken umbrage, if I were Wicky, but Wicky smiled obliviously and handed J.P. a carrot disk from the salad.

“Oh, well,” my grandpa said. “The important thing is, we’re together. That’s what Thanksgiving is all about! Everyone gathered together. Wouldn’t you agree, Jeffrey?”

My father said, “Eh? Ah. Yes, indeed,” and poured himself more wine. He tended to remove himself when Pop-Pop started one of his homilies.

“And we’ve all got our health, knock on wood. Mother’s blood pressure’s under control; my eyesight’s no worse for the moment. Opal is with us this year, and she’s turned into a young lady! J.P.’s been upped to a booster seat____”

Evidently Pop-Pop was proceeding in order around the table. Some Thanksgivings he went by age, but today he began with Gram, at his left (wearing her sequined turkey T-shirt), and then himself, and then Opal and J.P. on his right — J.P. in a miniature business suit, already smeared with pumpkin.

Next came my brother, at the head of the table. “Jeff is on the road to being a stock-market millionaire,” Pop-Pop said, and Jeff leaned back with a genial laugh and laced his hands across the front of his suit. The successful patriarch; that must be the image he was aiming for. I don’t know why I hadn’t understood that till now. The only patriarch in Jeff’s acquaintance had been our Grandfather Gaitlin, a big-bellied man who’d loved a good cigar, which would explain why Jeff was nursing an imaginary paunch and letting his laugh trail off in an emphysemic wheeze. “Well, not exactly a millionaire ,” he was saying through a smoker’s cough. No wonder he was so keen on hosting all family gatherings!

Pop-Pop moved on to Mom. “Margot here’s the new chairwoman of the Harbor Arts Club,” he said, while Mom gave a Queen Elizabeth smile, first to her left and then to her right. “And Jeffrey, of course, continues to set an example for all of us with his philanthropic activities….” My father winced, bowed, and took another sip of wine.

I never could tell who, exactly, Pop-Pop was conveying his information to. We ourselves already knew it. God, maybe? I glanced up at the ceiling.

“Sophia, Miss Sophia, is sharing our Thanksgiving for the very first time,” Pop-Pop said, “but we’re hoping it won’t be the last, by a long shot.” Sophia flushed and directed a smile toward her bosom. She was wearing her hair drawn up high on her head today, which made her look formal and elegant.

“We credit Sophia with helping a certain young man begin to settle down,” Pop-Pop said. “Speaking of who …” And then it was my turn.

“Didn’t I always tell everyone Barnaby would be fine? He’s a good, good boy,” Pop-Pop said, leaning across the table to gaze earnestly into my face. “In fact, I think some might say he’s found his angel. Hah? Hah?” And he sat back and looked around at the others. “Wouldn’t you agree?”