Authors: Jenny Han
Daddy’s home again. He and Mama are going to a Halloween
party at the Honeycutts’. Jim Honeycutt works with Daddy, and he was transferred over to the Clementon offices not too long ago. The Honeycutts just moved here, and already they’re throwing parties. I can’t remember the last time Mama and Daddy had anybody over to the house. Mama grumbled about having to go to a Halloween party, but she sure spent some time thinking about her costume.
Daddy’s wearing his tux. He says he is Double-Oh-Seven. I said, what’s Double-Oh-Seven, and he laughed. “Bond, James Bond,” he said. “Don’t you know who James Bond is?”
I said, “Yeah. I’m not stupid. I just didn’t know the Double-Oh-Seven part. What does that mean, anyway?”
Daddy changed the subject quick. I don’t think he knows what it means either.
It took me most of September to think up my costume. I’m a mad scientist. I got Celia to crimp my hair and tease it out, and I’m wearing a lab coat from science class.
“You look cute, Shug,” Daddy reaches out to ruffle my hair, and I twist away before he can mess it up. “Where’s your sister?”
“Margaret Tolliver’s throwing a Halloween party, and Celia won’t even let me go. She never takes me anywhere. So me and Elaine are gonna go trick-or-treating, just for
kicks.” He isn’t even listening to me anymore; he’s looking over my shoulder.
It’s Mama walking down the stairwell in her Helen of Troy costume. Her hair is piled high on her head, and she is wearing a white silk dress with an empire waist and folds and folds of silk. Daddy looks at her like she’s the only person in the room, in the world. This makes me feel safe. I know there won’t be any fighting tonight, just loving. I won’t have to put my headphones on to drown out their yelling. I won’t hear a thing. I’ll just sleep.
That’s how it is with my parents. It’s all or nothing. They fight like tomcats, and then they make up for it later.
“You’re beautiful,” Daddy says, like it’s a fact. And it is. She is. He reaches out and touches her cheek, and she smiles a secret smile meant only for him.
All of a sudden my father remembers that I am there too, and he says, “Isn’t your mama beautiful, Shug? Isn’t she somethin’?”
She’s somethin’ all right. I don’t say anything, and it doesn’t matter, because they won’t hear me anyway. Daddy helps Mama with her coat, and he tells me to be good and have fun.
To be good and have fun. Can you be good and have fun
all at the same time? Is that even possible?
I wonder.
As soon as it starts to get dark, I head over to Elaine’s. Mrs. Kim makes a big fuss over my costume and takes about a million pictures of the two of us. Elaine is dressed up as Daisy from
The Great Gatsby
. We got the idea when we were flipping through channels one afternoon, and
The Great Gatsby
was on the old movie network. Elaine had never heard of it, but I’d read it last summer because it was on Celia’s reading list.
Mrs. Kim spent two weeks sewing Elaine’s costume, and it shows. Elaine’s dress is a silky periwinkle blue, and she’s tied a lace sash just below her hips. She’s wearing a shiny blond wig cut in a bob, and a pearl and feather headpiece. And dark red lipstick. She’s not usually allowed to wear makeup, but her mother let her just this once because it was a special occasion.
We run into the boys on Thurston Street. When I see the way the boys look at Elaine, my stomach turns. Mark stares at her like he’s never seen a girl before. Even Jack looks at her, and he doesn’t look at any girl. I feel silly in my mad scientist costume, and to think I’d been so proud of it just a few minutes before. I’d thought it was such a
clever idea, and now it feels all wrong. I wish I’d picked something glamorous instead of something babyish. I’m the one with the blond hair;
I
should have been Daisy instead of a stupid mad scientist. It was
my
idea.
Hugh whistles. “Who are you?” he says admiringly. He isn’t looking at me, of course.
“Duh, I’m Daisy from
The Great Gatsby
.”
“What’s that?” Hugh says.
“It’s a book; it’s famous.” She bats her fake eyelashes at him and says, “The schools down South really are deficient. Can you even read, Huey?”
I bristle. Elaine has a lot of nerve talking about the South like that. She didn’t even know who Daisy was until I told her.
Whooping, Hugh grabs the headpiece from her head and takes off running down the street. Elaine laughs and chases after him, tottering in her heels.
The rest of us stand around awkwardly. It’s cold outside, and at least my lab coat is keeping me warm. Well, warmer than Elaine in her skimpy little dress, anyway.
Jack pokes my hair, and I slap his hand away. Laughing, he says, “Your costume’s not half bad, Einstein.”
I flush. I hadn’t even thought of that. I hadn’t gotten the
idea from him, had I? And Einstein wasn’t really a scientist, he was more of a mathematician. Wasn’t he? He did have that wild hair, though.…
My whole life I wanted to eat at Mark’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. I almost got my wish a few years back when Daddy couldn’t come home because of work, and Mama got so drunk she forgot to put the turkey in the oven. I was looking forward to eating that turkey all day, and then dinnertime came, and I asked Mama, when do we get to eat? She said, “Damnation!” And that turkey was still frozen solid in the refrigerator. I threw a fit—all I ever wanted was that turkey! Turkey for dinner and turkey sandwiches all week. I said that I was going to the Findleys’ for dinner, and Mama said absolutely not. While I was crying upstairs, she went to Kentucky Fried Chicken and bought a twenty-piece bucket. She got a family-size portion of mashed potatoes,
extra biscuits, and two corn on the cobs just for me. Mama got that part right at least.
Thanksgiving is a big deal at Mark’s house. They even hang a turkey flag on the front porch. Mrs. Findley starts cooking three days in advance. Food prep, she calls it, so there’s less to do on the big day. I’d help her by doing little things—chopping onions and rolling out piecrust, stuff like that. She always makes exactly the same dishes, and I know it all by heart. Turkey with giblet gravy, fresh-baked yeast rolls, cranberry sauce from scratch, sweet corn pudding, green bean casserole, real mashed potatoes, whipped sweet potatoes with baby marshmallows, oyster stuffing (homemade, not box), pumpkin pie and pecan pie (homemade, not store bought). Mark’s grandparents come all the way from Detroit, and the men work on Mr. Findley’s antique train set. I’m not sure what the women do. I guess they cook. I never bothered to ask.
This year we’re having guests too. Well, we are now, anyway. Daddy called last Monday and said that he’d invited the Honeycutts over for Thanksgiving dinner. You can just bet that Mama wasn’t too happy about that one. She lit into him good. She called Daddy a selfish, good-for-nothing louse of a husband. She also said that the last time she saw him, he’d put on some weight, and maybe he’d be better off
skipping Thanksgiving dinner altogether. I’m surprised the whole neighborhood didn’t hear some of the names she was calling him.
Mama cleans the house all week. She even vacuums. She assigns Celia and me jobs too. I cleaned the downstairs bathroom, made sure the guest towels were out, and Celia dusted the family room. She’s also in charge of the biscuits and stuffing. I’m in charge of the yams and the pumpkin pie. That leaves the collard greens, mashed potatoes, and turkey for Mama. Daddy doesn’t get any jobs because he comes home the night before Thanksgiving, so late that I’m already in bed.
I hear the car pull in the driveway. There was a time when I’d run downstairs so I could be the first to see him, but now I just stay in bed, straining to hear Mama and him talk. I can’t hear anything, though.
Thanksgiving night the Honeycutts arrive right on time. There’s Jim Honeycutt, who Daddy works with, Lana Honeycutt, who doesn’t work at all, and Micah Honeycutt, who goes to Clementon High with Celia—not that they hang around the same crowd. Micah has a fierce case of acne and an attitude to match. He and Celia’s kind don’t really mix. They mutter hey to each other, and that’s pretty much it.
I figure it’s up to me to be a good hostess so I try to talk to Micah, but he looks at me like I am a bug. We all sit around the den, smiling at one another. Except for Micah, who just scowls.
Mr. Honeycutt is wearing a navy pinstriped suit, and Mrs. Honeycutt has on a pink cashmere sweater set, and a gold charm bracelet that jangles. Her hair is auburn, and it’s pulled up in a French twist. It looks hard and stiff. I wonder if she did it herself or if she had it done.
Mama’s wearing a black satiny blouse and black cigarette pants. She wears no jewelry; she doesn’t need it. Mama looks best in black, very fair and very striking. She knows this. Mr. Honeycutt seems mesmerized by the top three buttons on her blouse—they are open, and you can see the milkiness of her throat and neck.
Daddy’s bustling around, pouring drinks for everybody. “Lana, what can I get you?”
“Oh, just seltzer water for me, Billy,” Mrs. Honeycutt says, smiling slightly. Her teeth look like they’ve been dipped in tobacco juice. I bet she’s a smoker. To Mama, she confides, “I’m watching my weight.”
“Of course,” Mama says, smiling back. Then she lifts up her wineglass and says, “Cheers to that, Lana.”
Mrs. Honeycutt titters, and Daddy laughs, too loudly.
“That’s a gorgeous bracelet, Lana,” Mama says, leaning closer. “Wherever did you get it from?”
Beaming, Mrs. Honeycutt says, “I ordered it from the Avon catalogue last Christmas. Did you know they sell jewelry, too?”
“Well, no, I sure didn’t,” Mama says. She turns to us then. “Girls, did you know that?”
Celia and I murmur that no, we did not. We exchange uneasy glances across the room. Then Daddy starts on about some project at work, and Mama goes to the kitchen to check on the turkey. She is gone a long time. When she comes back, she says just a little longer.
We sit in the den for over an hour. I can hear Micah’s stomach grumbling from across the room. Celia hears it too, and she presses her lips together tight to keep from smiling. I can’t help it; I snicker out loud.
Daddy shoots me a warning look, but I can tell from the way his eyes are crinkling that he’s trying not to snicker too.
By the time we get to the dining room table, we’re all starved. Daddy says grace, and then everybody tucks into the food. The turkey’s a little dry, but with gravy on top, who can really tell? Tastes fine to me. The potatoes are cold from sitting out so long, but you just pour on some of that hot steaming gravy and it heats them right up.
“Grace, everything is just wonderful,” Mrs. Honeycutt gushes, dabbing a napkin to the corners of her mouth.
Mr. Honeycutt says, “Yeah, you are really somethin,’ Grace. You have really outdone yourself. Everything’s delicious. Right, son?”
Micah grunts and shovels a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
“Micah, are you and my Celia in any of the same classes at school?” Daddy asks, gnawing on a turkey leg. He looks like he should be wearing a robe and a garland on his head like the Ghost of Christmas Present.
“Daddy, I’m a junior,” Celia says, rolling her eyes. She looks at him like,
I can’t believe you’re my father
. Celia can say a lot with her eyes.
“Well, I know that, Celia,” Daddy says, turkey leg midair. “Of course I know that.”
Rolling her eyes again, she says, “So Micah’s a freshman.”
“Oh,” Daddy says.
Mama snorts loudly. She’s not eating much of anything. But she’s drinking enough for everybody at the table. I think she’s been drinking all day.
I say, “Well, Micah could be in accelerated classes, Celia. It’s not impossible for the two of you to be in some of the
same classes. Like, when I’m a freshman, I might be able to take—”
Celia kicks me under the table, hard. I stop talking and stuff some more turkey in my mouth.
To Micah, Daddy says, “Have some of that good dark meat, son. It’s not as dry.” He piles turkey on Micah’s plate.
Mama says, “More wine anyone?”
“I’d love some, Grace,” Mr. Honeycutt says, pulling at his shirt collar. He’s sweating, and his face is getting redder by the minute.
Mama smiles at Mr. Honeycutt like he is the best-looking man in the room and not the color of a rotten tomato. She pours him a glass of wine, smiling all the while. Then she fills her own glass to the top, and drains half of it in one swallow.
“Hon, I think you may have had enough to drink tonight,” Daddy says, forcing a jovial laugh. My stomach tightens, and suddenly my appetite is gone. I feel like I’m gonna throw up. It’s one thing for Mama and Daddy to snipe at each other when it’s just the four of us, but it’s a whole other thing to have an audience. I wish the Honeycutts would disappear and take me with them.
The whole table has gone silent, waiting for Mama to answer. The Honeycutts are staring down at their plates,
pushing food around. I guess they aren’t used to a Wilcox kind of Thanksgiving. Celia and I are plenty used to it. We look at each other from across the table, and with her eyes, she says,
I hate them both
.
At this moment, I do too.
It feels like hours before Mama says, “Oh, I haven’t had nearly enough, darlin’.” She smiles and lifts her glass to Daddy. “Not nearly.”
Just then, we all cringe. Even Micah.
I think I liked Thanksgiving dinner better when it was KFC.
After the Honeycutts leave, I sit at the top of the staircase with Meeks and listen to Mama tear into Daddy. Meeks rests his head in my lap, and I stroke his ears until he falls asleep.
“How dare you embarrass me like that! How dare you!” Mama’s voice is uneven, shrill. I can hear that she’s had at least two gin and tonics since supper. At least.
She rails on and on. “You humiliated me in front of our guests! The guests that you invited without even consulting me, the guests that I had to cook and clean for like a damn workhorse!”
“Grace, you were damn near drunk. What would you
have had me do? Carry you from the dining room table?” He sounds tired. He always sounds tired when they fight.