Leota's Garden (50 page)

“Are you changing your mind, Grandma? Is this going to be too much for you?”

Yes. It would be too much for her. All the activity, all the excitement, all the tension. But she was not about to surrender to Eleanor. She’d make it through Thanksgiving if it killed her. “You’ll be the one doing the cooking, Annie. I’ll be your cheering section. Are you changing
your
mind?”

“No. Oh, Grandma, I’m so excited about it. We can do it. I know we can. It’ll be wonderful. I’ll come over this weekend and start on the house like you said, though it’s perfect the way it is.”

“A little painting here and there will brighten it up.”

“I already have some ideas.”

Leota chuckled. “I thought you might. You do whatever you like. I want you to consider this house as much yours as it is mine.”

“I promise not to do anything without your full approval.”

“You already have it, dear. By the way, I was thinking about inviting Corban. How would you feel about that? He’s been a little blue lately, and I think his family is on the East Coast somewhere. He won’t be able to go home.”

“That’d be great, Grandma. Invite him and his girlfriend. And Arba and the children, too, if you like. And Juanita and Lin Sansan . . .”

“The more, the merrier.” Leota intended to draft as many allies as she could for Annie.

The cold war was over. The real war was about to begin.

Chapter 18

Corban was the first guest to arrive on Thanksgiving Day. He fidgeted nervously, glad he’d brought with him two bottles of sparkling cider and another African violet.

“Dear boy,” Leota said, taking the flowering plant in its small blue pot and smiling in such a way that his nervous tension eased slightly. “Annie’s in the kitchen. Why don’t you put those bottles in the refrigerator to chill? After that, would you please move Barnaby into my bedroom? I don’t want him having a relapse today.”

“Hi!” Annie said brightly, grinning at him as she put the foil back on the turkey she was checking. “We’re getting there. I hope you’re hungry. We have a twenty-pounder.”

“I’ll do my part when the time comes.”

“Good. You can mash the potatoes. I’m hoping Uncle George will carve the turkey. Grandma said she’d do the gravy. We’ve got green peas and mushrooms, cranberry sauce, black olives. Arba’s bringing candied yams and Aunt Jeanne is bringing pies—apple, mincemeat, and pumpkin.”

“What about stuffing?”

“Of course, there’s stuffing. It’s in the turkey. Grandma’s recipe. Plain
and simple—seasoned bread, celery, onions, and the giblets all ground together. Took us a good part of this morning, but it’ll be worth it.”

The doorbell rang, and Corban saw a flicker of tension in Annie’s face. “Why don’t you be the greeter?” she said. “I don’t want Grandma to have to get up and down every few minutes. She should be presiding over festivities in the living room.”

Leota was already at the door. “George, Jeanne. Come in! Come in!”

“Mama.” The woman leaned down to kiss Leota’s cheek. “How are you?”

“Fine, just fine. Come in, come in.” She turned, her eyes shining. “Corban, this is my son, George, and his wife, Jeanne. And my grandchildren, Marshall and Mitzi. This is Corban, a good friend of mine.” The children were staring at Barnaby, who was staring back, beak open and ready for attack.

Jeanne was the only one who seemed openly friendly. She smiled and greeted him warmly, while her husband stood silent and assessing. What did the guy think he was? A felon on parole? “I’d better get Barnaby out of here.” The children trooped after him, asking questions about the bird that Corban couldn’t answer. “You’ll have to ask Annie. All I know is he’s crazy and he bites.” When he returned to the living room, he saw Jeanne was still holding the box she had brought in. “Let me take that for you,” Corban said.

“Oh, I’ll take it. You men sit and get to know one another.” With that, Jeanne headed for the kitchen, the two children in her wake.

Corban turned to face the somber-faced George.

“My mother’s told me you’ve been a big help to her.”

“It’s been my pleasure.”

“When it hasn’t been a royal pain in your backside,” Leota said, settling back into her recliner. The three of them spent the next fifteen minutes in small talk—highly pained small talk. Corban had never felt so uncomfortable. Leota made a valiant attempt to get a conversation going with her son, but good old George wasn’t cooperating.

“How is business going these days?”

“Fine.”

“Still expanding?”

“Trying to.”

“I suppose Marshall is still in soccer.”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“Jeanne handles the children’s schedules.”

“Don’t you attend his games?”

“When I can.” George shifted, glanced at Corban, then back at Leota. “Do you mind if I turn on the television, Mother? There’s a good football game starting.”

“If that’s what you want to do.”

How,
Corban wondered,
can the man miss the look of sadness in his mother’s eyes?
Maybe his presence was the cause of George Reinhardt’s reticence? Maybe if he were out of the way, George would feel more free to talk.

“I’m going to go see if I can help Annie in the kitchen, Leota.” At least the women were talking.

“It’s so much brighter in here,” Jeanne was saying when he joined her and Annie. “And the flowers you painted are wonderful, Annie. I had no idea you were so talented!”

Annie blushed. “Grandma said to do whatever I liked, and I’ve been having the best time, Aunt Jeanne. She’ll sit in here, and we’ll visit while I paint. She says she enjoys watching me.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Jeanne said. “I’d like to watch. I’d love it if you’d do some of this in my house. I’d even pay you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t ask you to pay me.”

“Nonsense. You’re a working artist, aren’t you? You have to eat.” She glanced out the window at the children playing. “You’ve been working in the garden, too, I see. Everything was so overgrown the last time I was here.”

“Corban’s been a big help.” Annie grinned at him. “And Susan and Sam and some of the neighbor children. We’ve had plenty of helping hands.”

“It used to be so beautiful.” Jeanne sighed. “The first time I came here, the lilacs were in bloom. It smelled like heaven standing out there. I’m glad you’re bringing it back.”

The doorbell rang again. Corban turned in the doorway, but George was already on his feet. Seeing who had arrived, Corban steeled himself for a long, miserable day. The Ice Queen, consort in tow. Corban met Eleanor Gaines’s cool look with a slight nod while her husband, Fred,
greeted Leota with a kiss and a compliment. The regal Eleanor barely said hello to her mother before she sailed toward the kitchen. He stepped back out of her way so she wouldn’t ram him.

“Is everything going all right in here, Anne-Lynn? The turkey smells done.” She nodded toward her sister-in-law. “Jeanne. Nice to see you.”

Not much warmth between the sisters-in law,
Corban thought, playing a fly on the wall.

“Everything’s fine, Mother. I just checked the turkey a few minutes ago,” Annie said, coming to her mother, who turned her face so Annie could kiss her cheek. Annie drew back slightly, eyes flickering. “I’m glad you were able to make it, Mom.”

“I don’t see any yams. Didn’t you make yams?”

“Arba is bringing them.”

“Who’s Arba?”

“Grandma’s next-door neighbor. She and the children will be over in a little while.”

Clearly, that was an announcement that didn’t please Annie’s mother.

“I think I’d better check on my children.” Jeanne headed for the back door. Corban was trapped between the living room and the kitchen.

“I thought this was to be a
family
gathering.”

Annie blushed, her eyes flickering to him. He decided to rescue himself.

“Leota took pity on a poor, starving college student,” he said ruefully.

“Oh, of course, I didn’t mean you,” Eleanor said.

Liar.
He looked her straight in the eye. “That’s okay, Mrs. Gaines. I understand what you meant.”

Annie gave him a pained look.

Eleanor turned her back on him. “Anne-Lynn, I really think you should take another look at that turkey. . . .”

Corban thought about excusing himself and going into the bathroom. Maybe he could squeeze through the window and escape.

Somehow, Annie managed to get her mother back into the living room and sitting down. The television was blaring, and those talking had to raise their voices. Adding to the confusion, Arba arrived, bearing gifts of candied yams and a sweet-potato pie. “The children are coming through the back gate, Leota. I think they already met your grandchildren over the fence.”

“The back gate?” Eleanor’s perfectly shaped eyebrows arched. “For heaven’s sake, George, turn the television down.” When he did, Eleanor looked at her mother. “What gate?”

“The one that’s been there for years,” Leota said. “Sam fixed the hinges a couple of weekends ago when he came over to see Annie.”

“Sam?” Eleanor’s lips tightened.

“Sam Carter. He’s a very nice young man,” Leota said.

“He’s an ex-con, Mother.” She rose, heading for the kitchen again.

“Oh, dear,” Leota said softly. “Now, I’ve done it.”

Corban could hear Eleanor’s voice from the kitchen, not that she was speaking loudly. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. “I didn’t know you were seeing Sam Carter,” Eleanor was saying, “though I don’t know why I should be surprised by anything you do these days.”

“I’m not seeing him in the way you mean, Mother.” Annie’s tone was calm and patient. “He’s just a friend.”

“Oh, of course. That’s the vernacular for sordid relationships these days, isn’t it?”

Fred rose, his face pale and tight. “Excuse me.” He headed for the kitchen. He spoke softly, but the regal Eleanor was having none of it.

“This is between me and my daughter, Fred. Please stay out of it.”

“Mother, please . . .”

“I knew this day would be a fiasco from the start. I just
knew
it! Didn’t I tell you?”

“Shut up, Nora.”

“
What
did you say to me?”

“You heard me, and so did everyone in the house. If the day turns into a disaster, it’ll be
your
fault. Now, come back and sit down!”

Corban looked at Leota and saw tears welling in her eyes. In a moment they would be spilling down her cheeks. He glanced at Arba and saw mixed pity and anger. George’s jaw was set, his eyes glued to the television set. Jeanne sat there, forcing a smile. The voices in the kitchen dropped lower, but they were just as angry, just as intense, just as intrusive. Corban rose. “I think I’ll go outside and have a breath of fresh air.” They wouldn’t miss him if he snuck away.

“Don’t even think about it,” Leota said, keen-eyed.

“What?”

“You know exactly what, Corban Solsek. You’re staying.”

George looked between them, frowning. When Corban looked back at him, a muscle jerked in George’s jawline and he looked at the television again. “Let him leave if he wants to, Mother.”

That was all it took to make up Corban’s mind. “I’m not going far, Leota. Only as far as the front porch.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He didn’t come back inside until dinner was announced. The turkey was cooked to perfection, not that Eleanor Gaines could admit it. She sat at the dining room table, back rigid, face pale, lips tight, eyes down while Jeanne, Arba, Annie, and Leota talked.

“Let’s have the blessing, shall we?” Leota said, having been seated in the place of honor at the head of the table. Annie’s eyes were shining again, and she held out her hands—one to her grandmother, one to her mother. Everyone joined hands, some less eagerly than others. Corban felt uncomfortable and embarrassed, but that didn’t stop Arba from grasping his hand and giving him an encouraging smile.

“This is a day of Your making, Lord, for my family is under one roof again after so many years. Thank You, Jesus.” Leota’s voice was husky. She hesitated, then spoke again. “Open our minds, Father, and open our hearts as well. Come, join us at the table. In the name of Your precious Son, Jesus, we pray. Amen.”

Platters of food were passed.

“There are no chestnuts in the stuffing.” Eleanor glanced at Annie after a taste. “Did you put oysters in it?”

“Not this time.”

“This is the best stuffing I’ve ever tasted,” Jeanne said with enthusiasm. “Everything is wonderful, Annie.”

Eleanor glanced at Jeanne, her mouth tight, and went back to eating in silence. The tension kept everyone cautious.

The children were laughing in the kitchen. “What’re they doing in there?” Eleanor was clearly annoyed.

“Having fun,” Fred said tersely.

Corban thought about his own family. He could remember the tension on Thanksgiving Day, his mother slaving away in the kitchen while his father worked in the den. Thanksgiving had been nothing more than a day when vendors and customers didn’t call the office. It gave his father
a day of rest from the telephone, but not from his obsession. Even when he had made it big, he couldn’t rest in his success. He was driven by the memory of a childhood of deprivation, driven to overcome the stigma of having grown up on the “wrong side of the tracks,” driven by his own feelings of inadequacy.