A Long Thaw (9 page)

Abby’s face contorts involuntarily with worry.

‘Juliet has never been very good at picking the winners,’ Ethan says, leaning back into the couch as Juliet returns with an album.

‘Sorry. It was at the bottom of the box.’ She sits close to Ethan and opens the album across their laps.

Abby scoots forward and cranes her neck as Juliet narrates and turns pages.

Ethan presses his finger against the corner of Hannah’s recent school photo. ‘She looks exactly like you, Juliet. You with straight hair.’

‘You think?’

‘Just like you back then,’ he says.

Juliet leans closer to the album, squinting. ‘I don’t remember ever being that beautiful.’

Ethan shrugs. ‘You wouldn’t.’

The kitchen timer beeps a second time. Juliet pouts at her watch.

‘We can start dinner without him,’ Abby suggests. ‘He’ll catch up.’

‘I guess.’

‘You should feel honoured,’ Abby tells Ethan as they make their way to the table. ‘Juliet never cooks like this.’

‘This is quite a step up from the days of Mac ’n’ Cheese,’ Ethan says.

‘Ugh.’ Juliet puts on the oven mitts and pulls out the baking dish. ‘I refuse to eat that crap any more. We lived on it back then.’

‘Don’t knock it. I’m still a starving artist.’

‘Ethan is an amazing painter,’ Juliet says to Abby, placing the dish on the table. ‘His big break is just around the corner.’

‘Oh, bite your tongue. I’m not ready to die.’

Jesse arrives as Ethan is telling the girls how he spent his summer in Europe. Juliet makes all the introductions as Jesse sulks at the empty plates.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll warm yours up.’ Juliet carries his plate to the microwave.

‘So you and Juliet are old friends?’ Jesse sits across the table from Ethan.

‘The oldest,’ Ethan says.

‘I’ve talked to you about Ethan,’ Juliet says, over her shoulder.

Jesse shakes his head. ‘Don’t think so.’

‘Sure I have,’ Juliet walks to the table. ‘Ethan. From California. The artist?’

Jesse slides an arm around her waist. ‘Nope.’

‘It’s okay,’ Ethan says. ‘People’s descriptions never really do me justice anyway.’

‘We went to high school together,’ Juliet says. ‘In another life.’

‘Ethan was telling me what a bad ass she used to be,’ Abby says.

‘Used to be?’ Jesse pulls Juliet onto his lap. ‘When did she stop?’

Juliet laughs and her curls bounce as she shakes her head. ‘I’ve never been a bad ass.’

‘I don’t know.’ Abby smiles. ‘I’m starting to wonder about you.’

‘You want to hear stories?’ Jesse asks. ‘I have stories.’

Juliet’s eyes widen theatrically. ‘Shush now.’ She giggles.

When the microwave beeps, Abby stands to get his plate. Juliet whispers her thanks.

‘I have a feeling Abby’s the good girl here,’ Jesse says, picking up his silverware. He bumps Juliet with his elbow and she moves to a nearby chair.

Juliet turns and gives Abby a focused appraisal. ‘Abby has always been my hero. She’s tougher than she looks.’

‘I bet she’s never thrown a punch,’ Jesse says, through a mouthful of pork chop.

‘A punch?’ Abby laughs. ‘Can’t say I have.’

‘Me neither,’ Ethan chimes in.

Juliet shrugs sheepishly.

Nana has hung a Thanksgiving wreath on the front door and decorated the house in the colours of fall. Everything is deep oranges and browns, like the foliage of the trees out back. There’s a huge pile of leaves in the yard a child would love to jump in. But there are no children here.

Allen comes up the steps with his arms full of store-bought pies. Nana fusses over him, taking his coat and hanging it up. In the kitchen, he spots Abby. He slides the pies onto the counter and hugs her, lifting her off her feet.

‘How’s my favourite girl?’ he asks, and Abby wonders why this has never bothered her before.

‘I’m good,’ she says, and turns to concentrate on the mashed potatoes. Nana directs Allen into the living room where Aunt Bernadette sits with all the men, holding court. Widowed at a young age, she never had children and rarely cooks. She brings the alcohol to family gatherings and drinks most of it too. Abby’s father wanders into the kitchen from time to time, offering help. Nana chases him out and tells him to sit down, relax.

The kitchen is full of women.

Abby’s mother is snapping the ends of the green beans and tossing them into a bowl with a quick flick of the wrist. From time to time, she peers under the lids of pots on the stove and adjusts the heat. She was going to talk to her mother about Allen’s lie before today, but she hasn’t been able to bring it up.

Nana pulls the artichoke dip out of the refrigerator. She makes it for Allen every year. It’s his favourite. She hands it to Abby and tells her to put it on the table.

Aunt Bernadette has brought a date to dinner this year. His name is Richard. He’s bald from his forehead to the back of his neck, with thin patches of grey on the sides of his head. He speaks with a snooty Boston accent.

Abby sets the dip in front of Allen. He digs in and talks with his mouth full. ‘Abby, sit down with us.’

‘Do.’ Aunt Bernadette pats the seat next to hers.

Abby catches her father’s eyes. They cool the heat rising in her face. She begins to protest, but Aunt Bernadette reaches for her hand and gives it a tug.

‘Richard, this is my great-niece.’ Abby nods hello, wondering if Aunt Bernadette remembers they had already been introduced. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

‘Quite.’ Richard nods and smiles.

‘She’s the spitting image of her mother at her age. Wouldn’t you say, Henry?’

‘There’s a definite resemblance,’ Henry agrees. ‘Although I like to imagine some of my genes got through.’

‘Rachel was never such a beauty,’ Allen says, loud enough for Abby’s mother to hear from the kitchen.

Aunt Bernadette swats at him. ‘She certainly was. All the Conner women are beauties.’

‘Even if you do say so yourself, dear?’ Richard squeezes her hand.

Aunt Bernadette improves her posture, throwing her chest forward as she brings a manicured hand to fluff her silver curls. ‘Allen’s girls are the first blonde Conner women in generations,’ she announces, as if it is a fascinating piece of trivia.

‘You have daughters, then?’ Richard asks Allen, across the coffee table.

‘Yes. Three.’

‘And will they be coming to dinner?’

‘No, no. They’re with their mother.’

‘Oh. Yes. Well.’ Richard clears his throat.

Abby stands. ‘I should get back.’

Henry winks at his daughter as she grits her teeth and returns to the kitchen.

It’s four o’clock when they all sit down to the table at last, men and women together. Allen stands at the head of the table, carving the turkey.

‘How are the girls, Allen?’ Nana looks up at him.

‘Oh, they’re well,’ he says. He passes a plate to his sister.

‘Why didn’t Juliet come?’ Nana turns to Abby, and Allen pauses in his carving.

‘She decided to spend the day in Boston with her boyfriend,’ Abby answers her grandmother, who then looks back at Allen.

‘She should have brought him. What’s his name?’ Nana asks.

Abby pauses. Nana looks between Allen and Abby, waiting for an answer.

‘His name is Jesse,’ Abby says, as the colour rises in Allen’s face. He resumes carving. ‘I don’t think he’s big on family things.’

‘Oh?’ Nana scowls. ‘Have you met this boy?’ she asks Allen.

Allen coughs. ‘Um, no, no, I haven’t.’

‘Well, maybe you should,’ Nana suggests.

He swallows. ‘Light meat or dark meat?’ he asks Aunt Bernadette.

For a brief moment, Abby thinks this might be the end of the subject for today.

‘Will she be able to make it for Christmas or will she be going back to California again?’ Nana asks.

Abby sees the look on her mother’s face and knows she isn’t going to allow Allen to deflect a third time. She wonders, fleetingly, whether it should be done another way.

Rachel leans forward. ‘I don’t think Juliet’s spent Christmas with her sisters since she left for college.’

Allen narrows his eyes at his sister. Abby can feel her heart racing. She can’t quite believe this is how it’s going to come out.

‘Left for college?’ Nana says the words out loud slowly, as if she’s figuring out a math equation.

Abby takes a breath and holds it. She can see the line she’s about to cross. She’s going to push everyone in this family to the other side of it, for better or worse, forever. ‘Juliet hasn’t been back to California in three years.’ Abby pushes her food around with her fork. There is no going back.

‘What do you mean? She just moved here in the fall.’ Nana’s head turns left and right.

Under the table, Rachel squeezes Abby’s hand. ‘It turns out we were wrong about that. She went to college outside Boston.’

Nana looks at Allen, her mouth agape.

‘Juliet and Abby have been sharing an apartment in Boston,’ Rachel says, in explanation to Allen’s unasked question. She keeps her eyes on him, unable to look at her mother.

‘But you knew that,’ Nana says. ‘Right, Allen?’

‘I don’t think so, Mom,’ Rachel says. ‘Allen hasn’t spoken to Juliet in . . . What has it been, Allen? Ten years?’

Allen tosses the cutlery onto the table. ‘I don’t believe you, Rachel!’

‘Me?’ Rachel presses her hand to her chest. ‘You don’t believe
me
?’ She leans back in her chair, feigning calm. ‘I guess that makes us even.’

Nana has fallen silent, frantically smoothing out the napkin in her lap. Allen is still standing, his palms flat against the table top, looking at no one.

‘You’re the one who’s been lying to us, all these years.’ Rachel addresses Allen, but she’s mumbling, as though talking to herself. ‘We all felt so sorry for you, being kept from your children. But, really, you
abandoned
them.’ Her body is trembling with rage or fear; Abby can’t tell which. ‘You don’t even pay child support!’

Aunt Bernadette claps her hands to silence the table. ‘Perhaps it’s time to discuss something else,’ she says, in a firm voice.

‘But I don’t understand. Allen?’ Nana looks on the edge of tears.

Allen takes one look at his mother’s face and heads for the door. Everyone sits quietly as the screen door slaps shut, listens to his footsteps pounding on the porch, the car door opening and closing.

Nana looks around the table, helpless.

The car’s engine starts. The brakes let out a quick, sharp whine, then the noise dissolves, leaving them with the silence.

‘Henry, why don’t you finish the carving?’ Aunt Bernadette suggests.

Nana places her napkin on her empty plate and gets to her feet. She opens her mouth and then just shakes her head, turning around. She walks out of the room slowly, picking her way around the furniture with extra care.

‘Was that really necessary?’ Aunt Bernadette says to Rachel, with a bored sigh. ‘It’s Thanksgiving.’ She downs the last of her martini and follows her sister towards the back of the house.

Henry moves to the head of the table and picks up the carving knife.

Rachel excuses herself and heads out to the porch. Henry sets down the carving knife and goes after her.

Abby turns to Richard and tries to smile. ‘Sorry about all this,’ she says weakly, and she is.

Richard shrugs off her apology. ‘I’m sure they’ll be right back.’

‘I’m sure they will,’ she says, but she isn’t. After a long, quiet moment, Abby stands up and approaches the turkey. ‘Light or dark?’

She has seen Allen’s truck drive past the house four times. Finally, she puts on her parka and mittens and sits on the front porch with a blanket across her lap. This time, when he drives by, there’s no way he can pretend he has gone unseen.

He turns the truck around in the neighbour’s driveway and parks on the street. He walks slowly.

Mary doesn’t offer her son a drink. He sits beside her on the front steps without saying hello. They watch the Nelsons across the street as they play their traditional day-after-Thanksgiving football game.

‘Where did you go all those times?’ Mary asks, breaking a silence that had begun to feel impenetrable.

‘What’s that?’ Allen asks.

‘When you told us you were going to California, where’d you go instead? You must have gone somewhere.’ This is one of the many puzzles Mary has been trying to work out.

‘Different places. Vegas. This little place in Maine. I went there the most. It was quiet. Anonymous. Went on a cruise once.’

‘A cruise? To where?’

‘Caribbean.’

‘How nice.’

Allen must hear the anger that lies beneath her words. He says nothing.

‘And what about the cards?’ She used to give him greeting cards to pass along at holidays and birthdays. She’d never questioned it, thought it was a side effect of divorce. She feels foolish now.

‘I still have them,’ he says.

She closes her eyes. She will not let him see her cry. ‘What do you plan to do about this?’

Allen leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He rubs his stubbled face. ‘What
can
I do?’

Mary turns to him. ‘Maybe something different than what you’ve been doing?’

‘It’s too late, Ma. It’s been too late for a while now.’

‘Too late?’

‘Juliet’s been here for years. She clearly wants nothing to do with me.’

‘It’s Juliet’s job to make you be a parent?’ Mary tucks her chin into her parka. ‘And what of your other children?’

‘They’ve had years of Deirdre telling them about me. How can I fight that?’

‘Proving Deirdre right probably wasn’t the best way to fight.’

‘Maybe she
was
right. They didn’t need me.’

‘I don’t think that’s true. I think they needed a father very badly, Allen, and you might have seen that if you’d bothered to look.’

‘What do you want me to say, Ma? I’m sorry! Don’t you think I wanted to be their father? That’s all I ever really wanted.’

Mary pushes the blanket aside. ‘I’m not the one you need to be apologizing to.’ She walks inside the house, leaving her son on the other side of a locked door.