Authors: Liz Moore
I’m nervous. Playing Yonkers always makes me nervous but today especially. Seeing Dee Marshall will make me remember lots of things about my younger life. About my mother.
I hear a creaking noise outside the window at the head of my bed and I flop onto my stomach and look into the backyard. Maxine is out there. It’s seven in the morning and Maxine is out there turning a huge turkey on a spit. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater instead of her uniform. I imagine the Cohens have encouraged her to do this as a way of making her feel casual and included. She’s listening to her iPod and yawning.
Trevor and I have to get ready for the game. He pounds on the door between the bathroom and my room and says GET UP!
Up, I say.
While I’m getting ready Mrs. Cohen knocks on our doors and tells us we should eat breakfast before we leave. When I open my bedroom door I can’t believe the smells that come drifting upstairs. I’ve slept at their house a lot of other times but this is amazing. It smells the way a beautiful magazine looks. Trevor’s little sister April is sitting at the island in their kitchen when I come in and she swallows her juice very quickly and does not say hi to me. I don’t think she has said one word to me since I’ve been here which I think is nerves rather than ill will.
Hey April, I say.
She waves at me without turning. She’s nothing like Trevor. She’s very smart and has long hair all the way down to her butt and she wears glasses every day and reads all the time and is even reading now at the island. She’s very fat which I think Trevor and his entire family are embarrassed of. She’s more than plump. Her body swallows the stool she’s sitting on. Mrs. Cohen looks at her daughter from head to foot sometimes, I’ve noticed it, as if she is wishing to be able to do something about her, about her fatness. To do something about it the way you would do something about a leaky faucet. It is something I don’t like about Mrs. Cohen.
Oh Maxine, she says suddenly, looking out one of the huge windows that face the backyard. She has to turn that more slowly or it’ll never brown.
She heads outside, apparently to coach Maxine on turkey turning.
April and I are the only ones in the kitchen and I want to say something, anything.
Who do you have this year? I ask.
For what? asks April, peering at me over the top of her glasses.
Um. I don’t know, English, I say.
Ms. Langley, she says.
Oh, I say.
Fortunately Trevor comes in then all dressed and ready and he pounds his fist into his hand and says G-I-A! N-T-S!
Giants, I say.
•
Every year we play our Thanksgiving game at the same field that is neither in Yonkers nor Pells. When my mother was better and working at PLHS she used to go to them every year and bring me with her from the time I was a kid. It was the only time she ever rooted against Pells for anything: secretly we would cheer when Yonkers won; secretly we would huddle under a blanket on cold days and chant
Yon
kers,
Yon
kers,
Yon
kers under our breath and she would buy me a cider from the stands which I would wrap my little hands around for warmth.
She never saw me play on Thanksgiving because by the time I made varsity she was bad-off. On the way there I pretend that the Cohens are my parents and that Trevor and I are brothers but it feels wrong.
We ride in the back of the Cohens’ SUV and Mrs. Cohen is swiveled around toward us for the whole ride. She is dark-haired and her skinny legs are crossed and wrapping around each other too many times.
Gonna win? she asks us brightly.
Doubt it, says Trevor, but I know he’s being a wiseass because boys like Trevor always think they will win at everything they do no matter what history has shown them. Sometimes I feel this way and sometimes I don’t. Right now I don’t. I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been for any game. I’m nervous to see Dee Marshall. I’m worried that I will cry. I’m worried that my emotions will come gushing forth into a puddle on the field. I try my trick of turning off the faucet of my nerves but it does not work.
One thing I didn’t even think of to worry about happens as soon as I get out of the car.
There is Lindsay.
Lindsay and her whole family. Her two blond baby sisters who broke my car. Her superintendent father. Her lawyer mother. The Cohens and the Harpers know each other of course and they come toward us.
Last night at 10 p.m. Lindsay texted me
are u ok.
I didn’t write back.
Jeanie! says Mrs. Cohen, and Sharon! says Mrs. Harper. They throw their arms around each other like old pals. Then Mrs. Harper sees me.
—Hi, Kel! How are you, sweetie?
I’m great, I say.
Will we see you later today? asks Mrs. Harper, and Mrs. Cohen turns and looks at me curiously.
Mom, says Lindsay, very very softly.
Well, I say. I’m actually kind of—staying with the Cohens right now. I don’t.
Suddenly I cannot speak.
OK, says Mrs. Harper, looking confused.
Have a good game, says Lindsay, and she leads her whole family away by walking briskly toward the field.
The locker rooms aren’t much here. They do not feel holy. They feel bright and unused. After his speech, right before we go out on the field, Coach gathers us in a huddle and says Now listen. Yonkers is tough. Those kids are tough and they’re looking for blood. The only thing that means is we gotta be tougher. We gotta show them who’s boss. Defense. Defense. Defense.
All together we go
G-I-A! N-T-S! GIANTS!
And break.
Before I can go out on the field Coach puts a hand on my shoulder and keeps me there. Everyone files past us. When the locker room is empty he looks at me and says Mr. Keller. Are you all right?
He is a quiet man who does not like to shout. He is well spoken except for when he is giving us our speeches and then he uses the same language that every coach has used throughout history out of some fear of breaking tradition.
I’m fine, I say.
I, he says, but then changes his mind. You’re the key, he says. I have faith in you.
I want you to take a minute in here, he says, and gather yourself together, OK? Just take a minute.
He walks out. I sit down hard on the bench and put my head in my hands and realize that I do not want to be alone with my thoughts so I stay until I know Coach is gone and then leave.
When I walk out Dee Marshall is walking out of the locker room next door.
He comes right up to me. He’s wearing his helmet already and I see his eyes above the bars of it.
You called me, he says, and I freeze up.
I say nothing.
Finally he says, I heard. About your mom.
I shrug. Yeah, well, I say.
How’d you hear? I ask. I can’t help it.
That girl Tracy Diaz, he says, and suddenly the name of the girl EMT comes to me. I think of the sympathy on her face—she and the other guy shuttling my mother down the stairs, a thunder of footsteps—and tighten my fists.
I look around. He has the real version. I do not want any of my Pells friends to be near me right now.
How is she, he says.
Not good, I say, she’s out. She might not wake up, ever wake up I mean.
My shoulders sink suddenly and I realize I have had them lifted to my ears for three days and I realize it is the first time I have uttered the truth aloud to anyone. My breathing steadies.
Man, he says, and shakes his head, and I miss seeing him every day. I miss him period.
You know, anytime you wanna come by, he says.
Really? I say.
Always, he says. You know. Anytime.
I don’t know if it is this exchange or what but we lose spectacularly. 31 to 7. Dee is astoundingly good and I’m proud of him. Of his whole team. I have never played worse in my life. When I’m on the sideline no one talks to me. No one looks at me, not even Trevor. Coach sounds puzzled when he comes up to me. Are you
sure
you’re OK? he asks, and I say I’m real sure.
After the game we pile into the Cohens’ SUV. Parents up front. April in the back, one arm draped over the seat next to her, tapping out some rhythm on the upholstery. Me and Trev in the way back.
Trevor is furious. He cries when we lose, the baby. I know not to talk to him but I can tell that the Cohens are trying to figure out what to say.
Trev, says Mrs. Cohen, and Trevor says Do. Not. Speak to me.
Mrs. Cohen puts her hands up in the air like
Whoa, whoa
, and she turns fully around to smile at me. I smile back briefly. I like her.
Then Mr. Cohen glances at his wife, and then glances at me in the rearview mirror.
Hey Kel, he says. We were thinking. Would you—maybe it’d be nice to stop at the hospital today? After the meal? Say Happy Thanksgiving to your mom?
Maybe, I say.
There is a pause.
OK, says Mrs. Cohen. Well, would you like a ride there?
No thank you, I say.
Are you sure? says Mr. Cohen. Because we’re not—
Guys, he said no, says April, from the back.
We’re not far from it, says Mr. Cohen.
You
guys
, says April, and I love her suddenly.
When we get home there are tons of people in their house. The grandmother arrived while we were out and let herself in according to plan and she is running their kitchen like the captain of a ship. Trevor’s aunts and uncles and cousins are all there.
Mrs. Cohen brings me around introducing me to everyone. It is clear by the overeager looks on their faces that they have already been told about me. About my mother.
Trevor goes directly to his room and does not say hi to anyone. He slams his door loudly enough for all of us to hear it.
Don’t mind him, says Mr. Cohen.
I guess we don’t have to ask if you won, says a man I assume is Trevor’s uncle, and I smile weakly.
Do you want to go shower, honey? asks Mrs. Cohen. I realize I am standing in my full football gear and I still have my helmet tucked under my arm.
Sure, I say, and I walk away mechanically.
Well, I hear Mrs. Cohen say, thank God for you, Mom! We’d be eating at midnight if you hadn’t—
And the grandmother says That poor
boy.
I get dressed carefully. I noticed that everyone downstairs was wearing very nice clothes. The men were wearing jackets. Trevor’s grandmother was wearing a dress and pearls. On my brief visit home I stuffed a ton of clothes into a laundry bag without really choosing, and then I brought the whole thing up to my room and left it in a corner. When I got home from school the next day most of the clothes were clean and folded and put into drawers in the white wicker dresser and the nice pants and shirts were ironed and hanging in the closet. I pick out Dockers and the blue shirt my mother bought for me freshman year, which still fits but barely. I shake them out briskly and then put them on. The shirt will barely button across my chest. I rummage in the bottom of the bag for my dress shoes and then I spit on them and lift up an edge of the bedspread and polish them.
I sit on my bed until I hear Trevor go downstairs, and then I follow him.
When I see him I’m ashamed. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt and track pants and he’s sock-footed. April’s wearing jeans. Trevor’s cousin Mark, who is his age and sort of a hippie and who I’ve met maybe twice, is wearing a T-shirt that says
GONE PHISHIN
’ and his jeans have great gaping holes in them. Sometimes I still get things like this wrong. Quickly I kick off my shoes but it’s too late. They’ve seen me and are staring. And the dress socks I’m wearing have holes in the heels.
At least
someone
around here looks nice! says Mrs. Cohen, swooping into the living room with a plate of cheese and meat. She kisses me on the cheek as she goes by, as if I have just arrived.
Toward the end of the meal Mrs. Cohen says You know what we used to do when I was a kid? and no one hears her, so she clinks her glass with her knife and then drops it with a great clatter and suddenly I realize she is very drunk. I’m fascinated.
Excuse me, excuse me! says Mrs. Cohen.
Mom,
Trevor says.
No, Trevor, listen, I’m serious, says Mrs. Cohen. This is what we used to do when
I
was a kid.
The table quiets.
We used to say what we were thankful for, says Mrs. Cohen. Is what we used to do.
For a moment she looks sad, or like she has forgotten where she is and what she’s doing. Then she says, I’ll go first. I’m thankful for my beautiful family—she looks around at each person at the table meaningfully, and because there are fifteen of us this takes a while—and for this house, and for Kel, who’s—who’s going through a hard time right now, and so we should all be very thankful for what we have. To Kel’s mother, she says, and raises her glass.
I freeze.
Everyone freezes. Half of them raise their glasses an inch from the table and half of them do nothing.
Trevor props his head up on his fists.
April says, Um, I’ll go. I’m thankful for—my friends, and I’m thankful for the food that we’re eating. And for Grandma for cooking it.
You’re welcome, April, sweetie, says the Grandma, almost as if she might cry.
Mr. Cohen says he’s thankful for Barack Obama and everyone laughs and I can’t tell why.
One after another they go around. When it is my turn I tell them I’m thankful for their hospitality and Mrs. Cohen says vehemently that I shouldn’t be silly and that they love having me.
When it’s Trevor’s turn he says he’s thankful this is over, and he stuffs a piece of turkey into his mouth, and the edge of it hangs out.
•
It’s quiet after dinner. Everyone leaves. Trevor and April go to their rooms. Mr. Cohen goes into the basement which is where his huge impressive television is. The house becomes larger than ever, and every noise amplifies: the dripping of the sink, a car driving down the street faster than it should be. I offer to do the remaining dishes and Mrs. Cohen tells me not to be silly, but she’s still drunk so after a minute she gets distracted and sits down at the island in the kitchen and I gently take over. The water feels nice. I run it as hot as I can stand it and the window before me steams up until my reflection disappears.