My father took his napkin out of his lap, wiped his mouth, and put it on the table next to his plate. I watched as my mother looked at him, thought about asking him not to get up from the table, saw how useless that would be, and then went back to looking at her own plate. She put mashed potatoes on her fork, and brought them slowly to her mouth. I looked away, but I knew that she was chewing slow.
“You’re wrong, little girl,” my father said, standing up. His chair made a squealing noise going across the tile, “just as wrong as your sister was.” He walked out of the room. My sister sipped, looked at my mother as if just now seeing her, and something happened in Sarah’s eyes. I couldn’t tell what, but something, some sort of decision. She picked up her plate, and walked it into the kitchen. My mother was still frozen; the fork near her lips, her eyes down, her shoulders stiff.
My father had mentioned Katy. The rule was broken. I didn’t know what that meant; what to do now. Mom lowered her fork to her plate, and sat. Her shoulders still did not move. The television came on. In the kitchen, water ran. I wondered why Sarah had been so adamant about me coming home if this is how it was going to be.
The water stopped running. My mother got up and took her plate with her into the kitchen. I followed. Sarah was standing in front of the sink, cigarette in hand and a lighter in the other.
“Please, don’t,” my mother said. Sarah exhaled loudly and put the cigarette away. My mother set her plate on the counter and sighed. “Sarah, I think you should go apologize to your father,” she said.
My sister’s eyes got huge, “What?”
“I think you should go apologize to your father,” my mother said, without looking up. I wanted to put my plate down, but was afraid of the noise it might make; that they’d turn the tension on me, next.
“Why should I? I have a right to believe whatever I—,” she started.
“Because it’s Thanksgiving,” my mother said, and we knew from her voice that was all she intended to say. Sarah wanted to say more, wanted to fight more, I could tell. I don’t know much about women, but I’ve figured that out; when they’re in the mood to fight, then that’s what they do.
“Mother, why should I have to—,” she started.
“Sarah,” mom said quietly, “please.” Sarah exhaled loudly, looking down at the floor. Mom put her plate in the sink, and walked out of the kitchen. I felt as though I were in another country, watching Sarah through a telescope. She fidgeted for a moment. I could see her thinking. She didn’t look at me.
“Fuck,” she said, and walked out of the kitchen into the living room. I followed.
The news was on. I always hated the news, but dad insisted on making us watch it when we were younger. I never minded back when he was a good man. When he got older, meaner, though, we still had to sit with him for an hour while the news was on. We weren’t allowed to talk, though he made snide comments under his breath the entire time.
The stories were, of course, about the war. They weren’t calling it a war, but it was. I drifted off into my own world, and remembered the first time I’d seen a news story on Randy. They’d sent someone down from Pebble Falls. A big shot reporter. He’d written a story and they gave him airtime to tell it. It was “in an effort to bring real faces to the headlines” they’d said. They flashed five different pictures of Randy on the screen, and the man talked about him. He talked about the McPherson’s, too, but he got some stuff wrong. “Tonight,” the man had said, “a little boy is missing.” I didn’t want to watch, that night, but I did. I had to. I felt like I owed it to him. That was that first week. They still thought they might find him then. They still thought that, though probably hurt, he might still come home.
I wonder what things would have been like for him if he had come home? At the time, I wondered if he was tied up someplace, watching this show, waiting for something horrible to happen to him. I wondered what it would feel like to be that powerless.
I came back to myself because of the shouting. While I’d been away, they’d kept fighting.
“Daddy, I’m not saying that the United States shouldn’t look out for other countries—,” Sarah was saying.
“Then why wouldn’t we go over there and help these people?”
“First off, daddy, we have plenty of our own problems right here at home, and if the government were to spend half the money that they do on things like this to feed the homeless, put roofs over their—“
“Oh, come on. ‘Welfare, welfare;’ that’s all you people think about.”
“All what people, daddy?”
“You know what I mean. You whiners. Always ‘feed the homeless’ or ‘save the whales’. This world doesn’t work that way. If you want something, you have to take it. If those people want food bad enough, or a house, then they’ll get up off their asses and get a job,” my father said, and I hated him.
When he’d turned mean, I used to think that maybe I wasn’t his son. Maybe, somehow, I’d been adopted or something. Of course, I was already a teenager by then. It seemed ridiculous to me, even then. Still, he seemed so unlike me after he changed. I started to wonder if I’d change, too. I hoped not, but that was all I could do; hope.
“But, daddy, you just said that the government sent the armed forces over to help those people. How come it’s okay to help people in another country when we don’t—“
“Y’see?” My father asked, looking over at me, “Do you see what I have always had to put up with from you kids? I try to instill some values in you and instead I get my words twisted and thrown back at me. Shit,” My father said, and stood up. He walked out of the living room. I breathed, finally. But Sarah got up and followed him. I felt like staying on the sofa, but got up, too. I followed them.
“My own daughter, a god-damned pinko,” Dad said, and walked away.
“Daddy, I’m not a communist. I just think that this man, whom we did not
elect—,” she began
“If we didn’t elect him, Miss College Degree, then who did?”
“The electoral college, Daddy. They didn’t listen to popular vote, and they let him steal the election—,”
“I have heard quite enough of this, thank you!” My father said, and flung open the door to the garage. He slammed it behind. Sarah stood there, shaking. I wanted to put my hand on her shoulder, but didn’t.
Sarah turned around and walked back into the kitchen. I followed. She leaned against the counter. I got two tumblers down and put ice in them. I walked over to the cabinet and got down the scotch. I poured; one finger for me, two for her, like always. I got the soda from the refrigerator, and filled the tumblers. The fizzing was the only thing that broke the silence of the moment. I thought I could hear dad out in the garage throwing things around, but I probably didn’t.
When I brought the tumbler to Sarah, she had her head down, and one hand up over her mouth. Her thumb looked so skinny against her cheek. She took the glass with the other hand. The ice clinked against the sides.
“Shall we retire to the lanai?” she asked, a thick fake Georgia accent in her words. I nodded. It was what she always said.