Still, I mop up the last drips
of gravy with a dinner roll.
Dad watches, then comments,
If you ate like that every day
you’d need bigger clothes.
Better skip the pumpkin pie.
Gabe shoots me a sympathetic
eye roll. Ariel eats like a canary.
I think she can manage one piece
of pie without requiring
a whole new wardrobe.
As much as I appreciate Gabe
sticking up for me, Dad’s been
drinking for hours. This could
could go badly or he could
laugh it off. I cringe, waiting.
But it’s Zelda who takes on Dad.
Hey, Mark. Isn’t it you who always says you like your women with
a little extra padding? Or was
that something you made up
to make little ol’ me feel better?
Either way, this girl’s having
pie, though it might have
to wait for an hour or so.
Dad chooses to plaster a grin
on his face. Y’all are right. My
girl is a little bird. One meal
won’t make her a blimp, will it?
He stares across the table at me,
and with one sudden vicious
verbal blow knocks the air
from my gut, and from my lungs:
Too damn bad she looks so much
like her fucking whore mother.
I push back from the table
hard, a reservoir of invective
threatening to burst the dam.
But just as I’m about to free
it, a thought dashes across my
mind: What if this is his way
of proving me too irrational
to merit a driver’s license?
I Stay in My Chair
Zelda jumps to her feet,
inviting Dad’s anger
simply by warning,
Mark . . .
And Gabe stands slowly,
puts out one hand to
steady me, and asks,
Do you really think
that was called for?
And Dad sits very still,
ignoring the others
while measuring my
reaction to his absolute
invitation to tell his sorry
ass totally off.
Now I stand, scoot
my chair back under
the table. “Know what,
Dad? That was the first
time you’ve ever mentioned
what Mom looks like.
Interesting to know
I resemble her.
Thank you for that.”
I amble over to the counter.
“I think I’ll have some pie.”
And That’s the First Time
I can remember
calling my mother
Mom. Not “my mom.”
Not “my mother.”
Mom.
I hope that hurts
my bastard father.
I’m reeling, though
I don’t dare show it.
My father
is a carrion eater.
Maybe I’ve seen it before.
But I’m not sure
I truly realized
until now that
bone picking
might, in fact, be
his favorite hobby
and that his victims
are as varied as his
W o m e N
and me.
Wordlessly
My pie and I retreat to the living
room. I turn on the TV, mostly
for noise, which works perfectly,
because what comes on is football.
I flop down onto the too-soft sofa,
stare at big dudes in tight pants
and helmets running into one another,
pick at pumpkin filling in need
of more cinnamon or nutmeg
or whatever. I’m glad I decided
not to drink earlier. That little scene
was an excellent reminder
of the importance of self-control.
I’m thankful I could manage it.
I think I’ll save inebriation for when
I’m positive there won’t be a need
to parry with Dad, or with anyone,
for that matter. I’m wounded,
but not fatally, and with any luck
at all, I’m still on track to get
my driver’s license this coming
week. Once mobility is assured,
I won’t require anyone in my life.
I’ll be picky about who I keep.
Gabe Will Probably Be a Keeper
He joins me on the sofa now,
tilting the sagging cushion, and
so also me, toward the center.
Wow. That was ugly. I’m sorry
he said those things to you.
I shrug. Try to think of a proper
response, but no words seem
appropriate. What finally comes
out of my mouth is, “Want some
pie? I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
You don’t like it? I made it from
scratch. Well, except for the crust.
That came from a mix, but a good one.
I don’t mention the need for
more spices. “It’s yummy, but
I don’t have room for dessert
after all. You’re an awesome
cook, by the way. I hope I can
be as good as you one day.”
Stick with me, baby, and I’ll impart
my entire repertoire of culinary
secrets. You’ll be a master chef.
I can’t help it. “But then I’d need
a plus-size wardrobe, wouldn’t I?”
I don’t know if that is, in fact,
a subconscious plea for
reassurance, but Gabe takes it
that way, and I’m happy when
he reaches for my hand.
You listen to me. His whisper
is fierce. I don’t know what
your dad’s problem is or was,
but that attack was bullshit.
You’re an incredible girl, and
if you put on a pound or two
no one would notice because
you’d still be the exact same
funny, bright, loving person.
Funny? I guess.
Bright? Enough.
Loving? Am I?
“Okay. If you say so. I’ll save
the pie and eat it later. With
whipped cream. And I’ll wash it
down with full-strength eggnog.
None of that light shit for me.”
Atta girl. Now, who’s winning
the game? He chances a quick
kiss. Last thing we need is
Dad’s commentary on that.
After a While
Dad stumbles into the room,
holding a glass of what might
have a thimbleful of eggnog
combined with some amber
liquid. Whiskey, is what Dad’s
breath announces, when he says,
Move over there, would ya?
Gabe excuses himself to go
call his mom and wish her
a happy Thanksgiving. When
he gets up off the sofa, I do, too.
“I’ll help Zelda with the dishes.”
Dad snorts. Was it something
I said? Hey! Touchdown!
I ignore him, and the touchdown,
wander back into the kitchen,
where Zelda has already managed
to clean up the Gobbler Day mess.
“I didn’t know you were a magician.”
It wasn’t so bad. Mark cleared
while I washed a
nd put stuff away.
Dad Played Busboy?
That’s hard to believe.
Maybe Zelda gave him
hell. Funny, but I think
the magician comment
is the most words I’ve
ever offered her at once.
“Dad never helps clear
at home. You really must
be able to work magic.”
There. Real conversation.
Believe it or not, I think
he felt guilty about blowing
up at the dinner table, not
that he bothered to apologize.
He didn’t tell you he was sorry,
did he? I told him he should.
“No, but it doesn’t matter,
and empty apologies
don’t count anyway.
I’ll do what I always do,
and chalk it up to alcohol.”
Zelda, who isn’t nearly as
buzzed, nods understanding.
You and I don’t talk much,
but I want you to know if you
ever need an ear, I’m here, okay?
Actual Kindness
That’s how that feels.
Not just lip service.
And lacking ulterior motive.
What can she want
from me, anyway?
“Thanks, Zelda. Appreciate it.”
Not that I’d ever take
her up on it. Not like I
ever want to grow close
to one of Dad’s women.
That would spell doom.
“And thanks for a great Turkey Day.”
I don’t mention it’s the first time
I’ve ever felt like part of a family
Why did he have to ruin it?
Why was I the person he chose
to shove so forcefully away?
Between the L-Tryptophan
In the turkey and the alcohol
in his eggnog, Dad passes out,
snoring, before the game ends.
I don’t need to stay and listen
to his rumbling, so I ask Gabe
for a ride home, and to make
sure Dad stays put, I bring
the keys to the Focus with me.
“I’ll send them back with Gabe,”
I assure Zelda. “But you might
want to hang on to them until
tomorrow. Dad shouldn’t drive
tonight, and I’m fine home alone.”
The first third of the drive
is silent, Gabe and I both lost
in introspection. He’s rarely
so pensive, and when I finally
pull myself out of myself,
I ask, “Is everything okay?”
Yeah. I just miss my mom, and
talking to her only makes me
miss her more. She’s doing better,
though. Says she’ll probably go
home after the first of the year.
“That’s great. Sounds like progress.
Oh, hey . . . Look. There’s Niagara.”
Gabe slows as we pass the Triple G,
where a woman’s riding the mare
in a paddock. An attractive woman.
Gabe confirms it’s Peg Grantham.
“Pull over a second. Please.”
When the GTO brakes to a halt,
I jump out and go over to the fence,
wave, and Niagara, plus rider,
come trotting over. I introduce
myself, then ask, “How’s Hillary?”
Her injuries are healing well.
But she’s antsy. And lonely.
You should come visit her.
“Would tomorrow be okay?”
I say it before realizing I might
not have a way to get here.
Oh, absolutely. Also, I hear
you’re a horsewoman. I’ll take you
on a tour of the barn if you’d like.
“Sounds like a plan. I’d love it.”
Deal struck, I figure I’ll just have
to talk Gabe into giving me a ride.
Home Again
Straight into the routine.
Shoes off by the door.
Click heater up.
Go into the kitchen
for something to drink
while Gabe settles in
on the couch to wait.
Except this time what
I return with are two
steaming mugs of tea,
sugar on the side.
While I wouldn’t mind
something stronger,
I want to see if kissing
him is as good minus
any trace of alcohol.
He looks at me quizzically.
Earl Grey? That’s new.
“You know your tea,
which doesn’t surprise
me. But, yeah, I guess
this is the mostly new me.
I’ll put on some music.
Any special requests?”
Don’t suppose you have any
Cold War Kids? Or Muse?
This makes me smile.
“I do, actually, and I rarely
get to play them without
headphones on. Dad only
listens to country.”
I plug my phone into
the speaker dock Dad gave
me for Christmas last year,
an interesting gift choice,
considering he hates my music.
Then I sit close to Gabe,
who pulls my legs across
his. We sip tea, listening
to music we both appreciate,
and the importance of this
particular connection
soon becomes obvious.
I need to feel cared
about. Gabe needs to
feel not alone. We don’t
have to give voice to those
feelings. It’s enough we
acknowledge them. We do,
and I know we do, because
simultaneously we set
our cups down so they
can’t interfere in what’s
coming next. “Wait.”
Not on the Couch
Not fast.
Not half-clothed.
Not a throwaway.
I lead Gabe down
the short hallway
to my room, happy
for once to have made
I turn on the night-
light I rarely rely on.
That will be enough.
I don’t want to bathe
in harsh artificial glare,
but I do want to see.
He stops me just inside
the door. Are you sure?
“Is it too late to change
my mind?” I grin. “No.
I’m sure. At least I think so.”
Now he smiles. Way to be
definitive. Well, if you’re
almost, sort of, kinda sure,
let’s give it a try. But first . . .
I’ve Lost Track
Of what number kiss
this could be, but it
doesn’t matter. This kiss
will lead somewhere new,
and that’s a place I must explore.
This kiss isn’t sweet.
Isn’t gentle, and yet,
the kind of need infusing
it is anything but selfish.
He’s giving to me.
I’m giving to him.
And when one accepts
what the other offers,
it is with gratitude.
His arms encircle
my waist, lift, and carry
me to the bed, where
he lays me down
carefully, treasure.
I watch him peel off
clothing�
��his shirt,
his Wranglers—until there’s
nothing left but the gray
boxers that hide nothing.
He has a blue-collar body,
toned by physical labor,
not gym equipment.
He also has goose bumps.
The heater hasn’t quite
managed to shake the chill.
I laugh. “Better get under
the covers before you freeze.”
Good idea. But first . . .
He reaches down, unzips
my jeans, tugs them off
by the cuffs. I wish I’d worn
Victoria’s Secret panties
instead of the garden
variety cotton, but that’s
all I’ve got in my drawer.
Gabe doesn’t seem to care.
His hands travel my legs,
knees to hips, then push
up over the slight rise
of my belly to the small
hills jutting just above.
Take off your sweater.
He helps lift it over my head,
then unhooks my bra before
covering our exposed skin
with sheet and quilt and
lying beside me, facing me,
and he pauses there.
You can still change your mind.
In response, I kiss him,
plead for his lips and tongue
and fingers to touch places
only one other person
has ever been given explicit
permission to explore.
He isn’t Monica, no, not at all.
She is silk. He is leather.
She is lithe. He is brawn.
She is low tide. He is high.
She quivers. He quakes.
The giving is different.
He directs, and I follow
the script, learn the action,
rehearse until I get it right.
The final act is approaching.
I thought I would be scared
but I’m anxious for the gift
of knowledge denied by God
in the book of Genesis.
Instead, Gabe is the denier.
Stop. I don’t have a condom.
Condom, Right
I definitely don’t want
to take a chance on
getting pregnant.
Oh, but . . .
“Hold on a sec.”
I roll over toward
the nightstand, open
the drawer, which is
still well-stocked with
Trojans I haven’t had
a use for, up until now.
When I hand one to
Gabe, he gives me
an oh really? look.
“You can thank Syrah.
Long story. Tell you
later. Meanwhile . . .”
The pause has resulted
in a need to start over,