The Power House Wives. Fredrica Greene
answer, but when she heard her daughter’s voice, she grabbed the receiver before Meredith clicked off. “This is the first chance I’ve had to call,” Meredith said. She was stuck in traffic on the 110 in Los Angeles calling from her cell phone. “I hate to tell you this, Mom, but I can’t make it home for Thanksgiving.”
Charlie hoped she hadn’t heard right. Cell phones sometimes sounded garbled.
“I have to work Friday.”
“It’s not Thanksgiving without you.” Charlie thought fast. “You don’t have to work on the holiday do you? Come for the day. I’ll pay for the plane ticket, and we’ll eat early.”
“Why don’t you come here? I won’t have time to cook, but we’ll go out. ”
Shoot. Charlie looked at the piles of food on the kitchen table. “Brad will be disappointed if you’re not here.” Despite Brad’s laid-back approach to life and Meredith’s driving ambition, the two were close. If nothing else worked, playing the ‘Brad’ card might persuade Meredith.
There was a moment of silence. Meredith cleared her throat. “Didn’t he tell you? He’s going to Dad’s.”
“He’s what?” Charlie’s breath stopped as if she had leapt into icy water. “No,” she said, getting her voice under control. “I didn’t know.”
“Dad called me, too. Out of the blue. I told him no way would I go. ”
Charlie couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat. Craig knew how much this holiday meant to her. This was his revenge for her refusal to cave in. Brad could never say no to his father. He probably was flattered to be asked. He obviously felt too guilty to call her. He could always count on Meredith to pick up any balls he dropped.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Meredith said. “I assumed you knew.”
“That’s okay,” Charlie tried to keep her voice light.
“Come to L.A. We’ll have fun.”
“Thanks sweetie, but I can’t leave the dogs.” Finding a sitter for three elderly canines was harder than finding a babysitter. And she couldn’t kennel them. They’d think they were being abandoned again.
“You and your dogs,” Meredith sighed. “I know you’re disappointed, but I promise to come home next year.”
Home next year! What home? Where would it be? Charlie had not felt so alone since Craig moved out. The mountain of food loomed ominously. Thank God she hadn’t brought the turkey home. As it is she’d be eating cranberries and yams for awhile. A long while.
The next morning Charlie sat at her kitchen table, Gunther’s chin on her knee, drinking her third cup of coffee and gazing glassy-eyed at the real estate ads, trying to concentrate. Her world was falling apart, and she was scrambling to reassemble it. She envied Lucky who was chasing a squirrel across the yard without a care in the world. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed Laurel’s number. “Do you have room for another orphan? And can I please, please, please bring something?”
Thanksgiving Day was as sunny as Charlie’s mood was dark. This was her first Thanksgiving without her children ever. Brad had phoned the day before and promised to come home for Christmas, but Charlie felt her family slipping away. They had a right to their own lives. Still, she felt as if she were alone on an atoll in the middle of the Pacific, watching them sail off to sea.
At least she wouldn’t be alone. Laurel always had an interesting assortment of “orphans.” Charlie balanced the pumpkin pecan pie on one arm and rang Laurel’s doorbell. Laurel’s front door was half hidden by a huge wreath, a fiery ring of crimson, rust, and amber leaves, probably the ones Laurel had gathered on their walk. Laurel packed a mean glue gun.
Laurel opened the door and practically pulled Charlie inside. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She took the pie from Charlie reluctantly. “You didn’t need to bring anything.”
Charlie shrugged. “Yes, I did.”
Laurel hung Charlie’s coat in the hall closet and ushered her into the living room. Wes was in the living room, holding a tumbler of Scotch. But where were the other guests? Wes offered her a drink, but before she could answer, Laurel interrupted. “Shall we eat?”
Charlie was confused. “Am I the only orphan?”
“We’re keeping it small this year.”
“Not Zora and Nathan?” Charlie asked.
Laurel shrugged. “They cancelled. Said something had come up.”
“What came up was I’m not at Power House any more,” Wes muttered.
Laurel narrowed her eyes, signaling him to drop the subject. “Dinner,” she called down the hall. Justin ambled from his room. He’d grown a foot since Charlie last saw him, and his cheeks had lost their baby fat. He even sprouted a hint of facial hair. As he eased his lanky frame into a chair, he flicked a lock of hair off his forehead.
Laurel’s table was as festive as ever: white damask cloth, gold-rimmed plates, crystal wine glasses. The centerpiece appeared to be a turkey made out of a large pumpkin, a gourd attached for a head. Ears of Indian corn fanned out to form a tail. Red gloves, their fingers splayed, made up its feet. At each place sat a smaller version: a pine cone turkey with pipe stem legs, walnut head and chicken feather tails. Charlie’s mouth twitched as she struggled to keep a straight face.
Laurel disappeared into the kitchen and returned bearing a trembling tower of orange gelatin studded with miniature marshmallows and cranberries. Justin rolled his eyes and Charlie gave him a conspiratorial smile. On her next trip, Laurel appeared with a tureen of chestnut stuffing. When it was apparent there was more to come, Charlie followed her back into the kitchen. Laurel handed her a bowl filled with string beans and onion rings. “Take this,” she said as she pulled a sweet potato casserole out of the oven.
“You made my favorites.” Charlie wanted to hug Laurel, but her hands were full.
“Can’t break with tradition.”
When the two carried in the last of the food, cranberries, gravy, mashed potatoes and rolls, Wes shook his head. “Holy Christ,” he said, “There’s only four of us.”
Laurel settled in her chair. “It’s Thanksgiving.” She pulled her napkin from an orange band. “Guess what these are.”
“Napkin rings?” Charlie flicked her napkin open.
“They’re made from toilet paper rolls. A little spray paint and lacquer. I bet you’d never guess.”
Charlie turned hers over and pretended to study it. “Never.”
“Let’s eat,” said Wes. He stood, raised the carving knife and fork with a flourish as if he were about to lead an orchestra. He proceeded to saw angrily at the turkey as if it was responsible for his job loss. Charlie had the urge to grab the knife and carve the bird properly, but she just smiled graciously as he handed her a plate with tattered slices of breast meat.
“Wine?” Wes held up the bottle.
“Can I have some?” Justin asked.
“Sure.” his father said.
“Wes,” Laurel protested. “He’s too young.”
“It’s Thanksgiving,” he said, mimicking her tone.
Justin and Wes, plates piled high, plowed into their food. Laurel picked at hers, and Charlie, although she’d been hungry when she arrived, found she had little appetite. An awkward silence followed, punctuated by the clinking of silver against china. The silence filled the room. The atmosphere felt like a guitar string tightened to its limit. Charlie felt the need to pluck it, to break the tension. But how? She couldn’t talk politics. That would start World War III right in this room. Wes was to the right of Rush Limbaugh. The weather? That was good for two sentences. Power House was definitely off limits.