“OK, mom,” Dennis said.
She disappeared from the doorway, and Thomas chuckled in triumph. Dennis, however, remained zoned in on the game. Apparently he’d had many such victories over his mother, and they’d lost their novelty.
Chapter Eleven
Thomas sat down in the thoroughly uncomfortable wooden dining chair at his customary place between his mother and father. Emily, Dennis, and Dan sat on the other side of the table. Emily had planned it this way years ago, telling her husband that “it separates the families.” Dan didn’t understand why this was important, and he really didn’t care to learn, so he’d simply nodded in assent.
There was a seat at the head of the table for Dan’s aristocratic mother, but everyone knew she wasn’t coming. She hadn’t set foot in this house in five years, not since she said that “most women don’t deserve the vote, because all they do is elect empty-headed liberals” to Emily’s face.
This being the Christmas Eve “light meal,” there was only twenty pounds of food on the table. None of the Christmas Day heavy hitters — the turkey, the ham, the coconut balls — were present, but there was still enough hearty variety for any stomach. Thomas eyed the meatballs, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie with particular interest.
For this meal, Emily had used her Roxy Wesley dish set. Roxy Wesley was a feminist chef with a half-hour cooking show on the Food Network (her catchphrase, which she said without irony: “I’m not a piece of meat, but I know how to cook one”), and the dishes in her set were designed with delightful garden scenes in soft colors. In other words, they looked like dishes from any other set.
Before the families could begin eating, they had to have a Prayer. Emily had rejected her parents’ stuffy Presbyterianism way back in college, but her agnosticism was suspended during Christmas. She looked as pious as a nun as everyone locked hands and she chanted:
“Thank You for this food, and for bringing the family together. We don’t see each other often, so each moment we have together is a blessing. May this Christmas be joyful and fun, and may everyone get what they wanted — but maybe not what they deserved.”
Everyone chuckled at the light ending note — though, judging from Emily’s expression, it hadn’t been said lightly — then attacked the food.
“This casserole is great,” Thomas said in between mouthfuls, “but it tastes a little different than I remember.”
“Yeah, it’s a new recipe. I’ve been trying new things lately,” Emily said, looking at her husband pointedly.
Dan sat there, pretending to be oblivious. Just two more days, and he could get back to the firm…
“So Dennis,” Frank said, “haven’t seen you much since we arrived. What are you doing with yourself?”
“Nothing special,” the teenager replied, his cheeks bulging with mashed potatoes. “Just school and other stuff.”
“Tell your grandpa about basketball,” Emily insisted, then immediately began telling about it herself. “He’s playing on the JV team. Power forward — right?”
“More of a small forward,” Dennis replied.
“How do you like it? Score any points?” Frank Copeland wanted his grandson’s basketball experience quantified, preferably with detailed game-by-game averages — unless the numbers were poor, in which case he didn’t really want to know about it.
“Not really,” Dennis said. “I mainly just grab rebounds and play defense.”
“Well, last game you had ten points and ten rebounds,” Emily said, aware of her father’s searching gaze. “That’s a double-double.”
“Yeah, it is,” Dennis said after washing down a buttered roll with a gulp of sweet tea, “but it’s not really that impressive. It’s all kind of boring, actually. You run up and down the court, and everyone’s yelling at you, and the coaches don’t really tell you anything, they just say stuff like ‘Hard work beats talent that don’t work hard.’ Anyway, I probably won’t play next year.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard about it…” Emily complained.
“I’d think long and hard about that, Dennis,” Frank lectured. “Athletics builds character. It’s a good way to test oneself, and in a pretty safe environment. Because trust me, once you get out in the Real World, people will eat you alive if you let them.”
“Nah, I’m not worried about that,” Dennis said nonchalantly. “I don’t plan on letting people eat me alive.”
It was said so simply, and with such easy confidence, that Frank Copeland was silenced. Who was this mature young man in front of him? Last year, Dennis would have replied with a humble “Yes, Grandpa,” but now he disregarded Frank’s hard-earned advice with the certainty of someone infinitely wiser. Which was impossible. Frank Copeland was a successful businessman who had retired to a pleasant life in Florida, while this kid had done nothing except play video games and pop zits.
Thomas, meanwhile, thought back to his own athletic career. He’d played baseball and basketball for a few years, but quit when he was in middle school. The coaches, he found, did not really believe that “hard work beats talent that don’t work hard.” The kids with the most talent played, and if they faltered, their only punishment was a mild scolding. Meanwhile, the lesser-talented athletes (Thomas being one of these) grinded day in and day out, galloping across the hardwood and winning wind sprints, or diving after pop flies in the outfield — and when game time came, they sat on the bench, where they were expected to cheer and congratulate their contemptuous starting teammates.
He felt like he should say something now, to let Dennis know not everyone shared Frank Copeland’s vision of athletics as shapers of men.
“I agree with Dennis,” he said. “I never got much out of sports either, and the Real World, when you think about it, isn’t like a basketball game at all.”
“Maybe if you had tried harder, brother,” Emily said snarkily, “you would’ve gotten more out of it.”
“Oh, I tried as hard as anyone,” Thomas said, not to be baited. “Dad can tell you. You remember watching me play, don’t you? That is, when you could get away from the store.”
“Yes, I do,” his father glumly replied. “You did put in a good effort.” His son had tried hard, at least the few times Frank had gone to his practices or games, but he’d never gotten the playing time he deserved. Frank Copeland had not been a delusional parent who thought his unathletic child should play every minute of every game. He’d known his son’s jump shot was ugly, almost a comedy act, and he’d known Thomas couldn’t hit a curveball to save his life. But, like Dennis, apparently, Thomas could rebound, and his defense was fierce, and if a cocky or just plain dumb pitcher threw him a fastball, he could tear the cover off the ball. His son would have been an excellent sixth man, or a dangerous pinch hitter, but basketball quarters ticked off and baseball innings slid by, and Thomas sat on the bench.
It wasn’t right, and to Frank Copeland, who believed that hard work had to win out, no matter what, it was an aberration that couldn’t stand. He tried talking with the coaches, but they dismissed him with the same banalities they used on their players. Frank Copeland stewed, but he could do nothing to change the situation.
He didn’t like being reminded of his powerlessness, especially since it directly contradicted what he’d been saying about sports, so he said no more, and poked at his peas listlessly.
Jean noticed the sudden onset of melancholy in her husband, and she rushed to counter it.
“Well, whatever you decide to do, Dennis,” she said, pointing her fork at her grandson for emphasis, “I’m sure it’ll be the right decision. We adults don’t give you young people enough credit, but I know you, in particular, have a good head on your shoulders, and I’m confident you won’t do anything rash.”