Hung Out to Die (6 page)

Owen answered, third ring. “Hello?” He was breathless, laughing, giddy.

“Hey, Dad, wait'll you hear this next knock-knock joke!” I heard a young boy's voice. That would be his son, Zachariah.

“Wait until your dad's off the phone. It's probably important.” That had to be Tori, his ex-wife. She was laughing, giddy, breathless, also. As if they'd all just had a rip-roaring good time with knock-knock jokes and a tickle fight.

My heart clenched.

“Oh, right,” I heard Owen say, his voice a little more distant. I could imagine him holding the phone away, to address Zachariah and Tori. “Nobody more important than the two of you today.”

“Hello?” he said into the phone, a note of irritation creeping into his voice.

“Tell 'em a knock-knock joke, Dad, maybe that'll get them to answer!”

More laughter. Then Owen, again, “Knock, knock . . .”

I disconnected, flipped my cell phone closed, tucked it back in my pocket. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut for a moment, telling myself, no . . . no tears.

I heard the voices, downstairs.

I had choices, I thought. I could nudge open Mamaw's bedroom window, jump out into the snow-covered junipers, and then—assuming I didn't break anything—take off, without so much as ta-ta, just like my mama and daddy had done.

I could curl up under the quilt and hide.

Or, I could satisfy my growing curiosity and go meet my mama and daddy for the first time in decades. Well, for the first time, really, in a way.

No wonder my nickname's Nosey Josie. Curiosity always wins out with me.

I opened the door, and stepped out to the top of the stairs.

5

Mamaw Toadfern's Thanksgiving table stretched all the way from the window at the front of her dining room, clear on into the kitchen.

Truth be told, her table was really her dining table adjoined on either end by several card tables of varying heights and surrounded by all manner of chairs—dining and folding and even lawn.

Even so, it looked like a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving scene . . . at least, Toadfern style.

The tables were covered by various holiday-themed plastic tablecloths, some dotted with fall leaves, some with turkeys, in a dizzying patchwork of yellows, oranges, browns, and greens. An impressive collection of holiday candleholders graced the table. I was immediately taken with the set of him-and-her Pilgrim candle-holders, with bright orange candles sticking out of the tops of their little Pilgrim hats.

And in between all the serving dishes of sweet potatoes and green bean casserole and corn and stuffing and cranberries and rolls and turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy were a scattering of at least two dozen pinecone-and-construction-paper turkeys. These were, I realized, made in the school years of Mamaw's children and grandchildren and even great-grandchildren.

Of course, I was focusing on what was on the table because I wasn't as ready as I'd thought I was to focus on the people around the table. My Mamaw. My uncles, aunts, and cousins. My . . . parents.

At the head of the table—the end where I stood, feeling more than a little awkward, sat Mamaw. At the opposite end, disappearing into the kitchen, was Uncle Otis and his descendents, Sally and her four brothers—Manny, Leo, Clarence, and Otis Jr., and their wives and kids, seventeen in all. The table, I realized, made a left turn at the kitchen entry. I could hear Sally and her siblings and children all fussing at each other in the kitchen.

I wished I could just turn around, dash through the tiny foyer, through the living room, and into the kitchen through the other entrance. Even as Sally hollered, “Harry, put that gravy spoon down! Stop aiming it at Barry!” I thought about making a break for it. Only Uncle Otis, from his part of the Toadfern clan, was on the dining room side of the table. Uncle Otis was the oldest of Mamaw's four sons, widowed, and generally considered the family goof, Sally had said, not seeming to mind the assessment of her own father. Given that I'd helped her the previous summer get him out of a ginseng-poaching pickle—and that's a whole other story—I understood why and how she'd come to accept her daddy for the strange, lovable oaf that he was.

He tilted his chair back so far I felt sure he'd fall over backward sooner or later, and clasped his beefy hands over his ample belly, which made the buttons on his flannel shirt bulge ominously. He stared at me as if he wondered what I was doing there. I'm not sure, Uncle Otis, I thought.

Next were Uncle Randolph and Aunt Suzy, and two of their children—Bennie and Fern. (Billy, the only cousin besides Sally to pay attention to me despite Mamaw's warnings, lives in New York.) Uncle Randolph was skinny opposite to Uncle Otis. He looked a bit lost in his too-large dress shirt while Aunt Suzy gazed around with an air of faint disapproval for her husband's family. Fern's husband, Roger, and their son, Albert, sat next to Bennie and Fern. Albert, who was about seven, was happily picking his nose even as his mother swatted at his hand and glared at him. I feared for Albert making it to age eight, but he was the only one who looked happy in that branch of the Toadfern clan.

Then there were two people I hadn't met yet—Uncle Fenwick and Aunt Nora, I guessed, from descriptions Sally had given me. They'd never had kids. Aunt Nora was a thin, birdlike woman, who twitched and had a long, wattled neck, buggy eyes, and a teased-up tuft of hair for her do, giving her an unfortunate resemblance to the appliquéd turkeys on her sweater. Uncle Fenwick was paunchy, balding, dressed in a nice pale blue Oxford shirt, and looked as though he'd really like to stab something—or someone—with his fork.

Maybe, I thought, his twin brother, right next to him. Daddy. Fit and handsome in an expensive-looking gray suit, sporting a gold watch and cuff links, and a tanning-booth tan. He was balding in exactly the same pattern as Uncle Fenwick, but he hadn't tried to disguise it with an extreme comb-over or hide the gray with coloring. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed and looked distinguished.

Next to him was a woman. Mama. Matching shade of tan, a honey-blond coif, artfully done makeup, long perfect red nails, and a knit teal suit with cream trim and gold anchor buttons.

They no more resembled what I'd have envisioned my parents to be like than the him-and-her Pilgrims with the orange candles in their heads. Not that I'd actually wasted any time envisioning my parents. I'd always thought of Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace as my parents, in spirit anyway, and besides, I'd always somehow known that my birth parents were never coming back.

And yet—here they were. And they were staring at me, along with all the other relatives I just described (except, of course, Sally and her siblings who were, lucky them, in the kitchen).

What could I say? I opened my mouth, hoping something reasonable would come out, when Sally popped out of the kitchen, carrying a plate.

“Josie!” she cried. “You okay? You came to and seemed fine, but you said you wanted to rest. I was getting right worried about you! But here, I've saved you a plate.”

I grinned at her gratefully, but my smile quickly faded as she sat the plate between my daddy and Uncle Fenwick. Until then, I hadn't noticed the chair wedged between their seats.

My parents stood up. The perfect couple. The perfect parents—at least in the looks department—as if I'd gone to a rent-a-parent shop and said, them! I'll take that elegant pair who looks so nice and wealthy and sophisticated . . . never mind that I don't resemble them at all in style or fashion or . . .

But did I see a bit of my eyes in Daddy's flashing blue gaze?

A bit of my smile in Mama's soft grin?

“Well, do look at her, Henry! Why our baby girl's just all grown up!” Mama exclaimed, breaking my brief moment of reverie.

What was with the “our baby girl's grown up” line? That was the kind of thing doting parents said when their child returned from, say, a semester at college, or a job across the country. Of course I'd grown up! What did they think had happened to me in the two-plus decades since they'd seen me?

I was about to grab my plate and zip around through the living room to the kitchen, when they both moved at once, and somehow embraced me in a sandwich hug.

“Awww, ain't that sweet?” I heard Mamaw snuffling, even as I gasped for breath between my parents, nearly overcome by Mama's patchouli fragrance and Daddy's aftershave, which didn't smell at all like Lava Soap. “It's just so great to have the whole family together—well, except Billy, of course—all my sons back together for the first time in years! It's such a nice surprise!”

I frowned. There was just something too glib about how Mamaw said that last sentence. Had she been surprised by my parents' return . . . really?

“Now, now, let the girl go,” Sally was saying. “Let her eat!”

And so I found myself, a few seconds later, staring at a plate heaped with Thanksgiving food, sitting between Daddy and Uncle Fenwick, and across from Mama and Aunt Nora, and realizing that everyone else was on pumpkin pie and whipped cream.

“We'll wait for you to get started, Josie,” Mamaw urged. “Right, everyone?”

Uncle Fenwick, who sat across from me, had a forkful of pumpkin pie just to his lips. He dropped the fork with a clatter back on his plate. Aunt Nora jumped, and one of the turkeys on her sweater suddenly lit up. I stared at her chest. I hadn't noticed before, but the largest turkey, right in the center, had tiny lights—red, yellow, and orange—around the feathers.

I felt light-headed again. “Oh, no, that's okay,” I said.

The table went quiet again.

“No one ever argues with Mamaw Toadfern,” said cousin Fern, hmmphing.

Unfortunately for her, she said it just as Sally was scooching along behind her, back to the kitchen to check on her kids, who were hollering something about one of their cousins drinking all the Big Fizz Cola. Sally swatted Fern on top of the head. “Well, Josie's just now rejoined the family, so cut her some slack,” Sally said. Then she looked at me. “Eat,” she said.

I started to cut into my turkey. Unfortunately, my place was right where two tables came together unevenly, and I didn't have enough space on either side for my plate. So as I cut . . . and cut some more . . . well, sawed, really . . . into the turkey . . . my plate wobbled up and down. My mashed potatoes and gravy slid dangerously to the edge of my plate as I kept sawing turkey.

“I reckon it's a little dry this year,” Mamaw sighed.

She was right, I thought, as I finally finished cutting a piece and started chewing. This turkey was drier than the construction paper turkeys gracing the center of the table—and probably less tasty. If I could get down this bite, maybe I could dip the next one into gravy . . .

“Oh, no it's perfectly fine,” said Aunt Nora. “I didn't even need gravy on mine.”

So no dipping the turkey into gravy to moisten it up. I chewed. Everyone stared at me. Oh, Lord. They were awaiting their pumpkin pie, and I had a whole mound of food to plow through!

I chewed some more. The lump of turkey in my mouth seemed to get bigger . . . and drier. Mamaw smiled at me encouragingly.

I smiled—mouth closed, of course—and kept chewing. Now Uncle Fenwick, across the table from me, got a knowing look on his face. Aunt Nora started fiddling with a feather of the turkey on her sweater. The wattle of the turkey on her sweater flashed red. The turkey in my mouth seemed to just get bigger.

Mama gazed at me. “Look, dear,” she said to Daddy. “Josie has my hair. The texture, at least. Not the style.”

“But she has my eyes,” he said, proudly.

I suddenly felt like I was two.

I stared straight ahead. That didn't help, because I was staring right into the turkey carcass.

“It was a beauty,” Mamaw said. It took me a second to realize she was talking to me, about the turkey. “I always boil down the carcass, for soup. And save the wishbone, for two people I pick to pull. Whoever gets the longest piece gets a wish.”

I looked at Mamaw. This description of her plans for the poor turkey's carcass wasn't helping me. I kept chewing, chewing, chewing. Mamaw's smile took a downturn toward grimness.

I had to swallow. Did any of these people know the Heimlich, I wondered? Would any of them use it on me if I choked on Mamaw's turkey?

Finally, I swallowed. I smiled at Mamaw. “Excellent,” I said. “Best turkey I ever had.”

Several folks, looking relieved, started on pie.

She grinned, obviously pleased. “Well, finish that up and you can have seconds!”

I managed not to groan as I eyed my plate. The cranberry salad looked moist. Maybe that would wet my throat enough so that I could take another bite of Mamaw's dry turkey. That would be better than immediately gulping down half the water in my glass.

I took a bite of the cranberry salad. Hmm. This was actually good. A mixture of Jell-O, cranberries, pecan bits . . .

“Any boyfriends I should know about?”

I looked at my daddy. Had he really just asked that? He was grinning at me, apparently eager for the answer.

“Actually, I'm dating a professor. He's quite a catch,” I said, with a preening tone.

Fern harrumphed. My face went hot. What had Sally said about me . . . and my rocky relationship with Owen . . . to our only other girl cousin? Not that I could imagine her confiding in Fern, but . . .

“Really. So where is he? I ought to meet this fella, if you're so serious about him,” Daddy said.

What? Who was he to make such a comment?

Mamaw giggled. Everyone else ate pumpkin pie quietly. The silence grew uncomfortable.

“He's out of town on business,” I finally said.

“Now, Henry, don't be ridiculous,” Mama said.

Thank you, I thought. At least one of my parents was apparently going to be sensible about this whole, awkward reunion . . .