though. Car. What about her car?
It’s Thanksgiving. Everything
will be closed. No batteries,
and even if there were, I have
to be at the station. Really soon.
I could pick her up after work,
but I know she’s anxious to get
busy on the duckurken thing.
“Get dressed. You can drop me
off, then take my car. Just don’t
forget to pick me up later, okay?”
I swear, relationships are labor-
intensive. All about compromise.
Yada. Yada. But when Nikki
comes into the bathroom, all
mussed from sleep and our
early morning rendezvous,
she looks at me in the mirror,
and her eyes hold so much love
that every ounce of resentment
melts away like butter on a hot
griddle. I relinquish the sink,
go into the bedroom, slip into
the jeans lying on the floor.
They’re a little wrinkled, but
clean enough and worn to
the point of real comfort.
A whole lot like the bond
between Nikki and me.
FOR A REFRESHING CHANGE
The pimply overnight guy has to wait
for me. I’m through the door at six
oh three, which means he had to play
the station call. Damn. Hope he did it.
FCC rules demand it, and a station
can get fined if it doesn’t identify
itself close to top of the hour. Oh,
well. Not my problem now, I guess.
The dude comes skulking down the hall,
muttering mostly under his breath. Sure.
Promote the half-ass guy and keep me
doing nights. He slams on out the door.
Half-ass? Me? And just what
does that make him? A company
man? I head on into the booth,
just as the last spot of the break finishes.
Perfect timing, man. Half-ass?
I don’t think so. I punch up the next
song on the playlist, zero seconds
to spare. Yeah, I should have been
here earlier. Most morning guys
get in at least an hour before their
show begins, to dig up some witty
repartee and be solidly prepared.
Maybe tomorrow, right? Anyway,
I can do this gig with my eyes closed.
Witty is my middle name. And I know
the playlist inside out. Lenny Kravitz
finishes up. “Hey, Reno, happy
Thanksgiving. If you’re up this
early on a holiday, what’s wrong
with you, anyway? The turducken
can wait for an hour or two. Go
back to bed, say hi to your wife,
and get a little for me.” Okay,
that was a wee bit crude, but that’s
the name of the morning show
game: Crude. Rude. Ear-catching
entertainment. Rick the Brick
Denio ain’t got a thing on me.
I’M MOST OF THE WAY
Through my shift when the studio
telephone rings. “You got the X.”
Is this Hunter Haskins? The husky
voice is somehow familiar.
“Uh, yes it is. And who am I speaking
with?” I have almost placed her
when she says, You remember
me, right? You gave me those Dave
Cook tickets. It was a really great
show, you know. So thank you.
Oh, yeah. Red. Actually, Leah.
“No problem. Glad you liked it.”
I was just wondering if you’re on
mornings now or what. Cuz I think
you’re really good. And I was also
wondering when I can see you again.
Despite everything with Nikki
this morning, Leah’s breathy
innuendo holds immense appeal.
I allow myself a short fantasy—
me, popping buttons, exposing
soft white flesh … stop it, Hunter.
Rein it in. You will not be exposing
anything, unless it belongs to Nik.
“Uh. The next remote I’m scheduled
for is the Sparks Hometowne Christmas
Parade.” Two weeks, two days. “I’ll
be announcing with Montana.”
Oh. So long? Well, I guess I can wait.
I’ve got a little something for you.
The girl is persistent. “Nice. Hang
on …” I put her on hold, dig into
my brain for a little Bob Marley trivia,
pass it on to my listeners. “You still there?”
Doubtless. “Well, you have a good
Thanksgiving. See you in Sparks.”
I’M STILL MUSING
About “celebrity” perks when Big
Leon comes in to take over. “Hey,
dude,” I say. I’d ask his opinion
on the matter, but his air name
refers not so much to his height
as to his three-hundred-pound
girth. Pretty sure he’s never been
offered a fine little piece just by
virtue of his “not exactly a star”
status. I gather my stuff, head
out to the parking lot, look for
my Nissan. Not there. Damn.
I should have called Nikki to
remind her. But then I notice
Mom’s Jeep, with a familiar
face behind the windshield.
She gives me a major smile
as I climb into the passenger seat.
“Hey, Aunt Leigh. Great to see
you. Uh, my car’s okay, right?”
She laughs, reaches over to
give me a hug. It’s safe. Poor
Nikki is just up to her elbows
in three varieties of stuffing.
“Yeah, right. Hopefully one
is plain cornbread. Where’s
Katie? Didn’t she want to escape
the madcap feast preparations?”
Leigh’s smile vanishes. She sighs.
Katie and I broke up. Crap timing,
huh? Least she could have done
was wait until after the holidays.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” We drive home,
Leigh droning on about “different
backgrounds” and “different dreams.”
I truly am sorry. She and Katie have
been a thing for more than six years.
We all thought this was “the one,”
especially Leigh, who seemed so happy
when they were here last Christmas.
I look at her tightly sculpted face,
softened some by the shallow tendrils
at the corners of her eyes. Almost
forty, still beautiful. And single again.
WE GET TO THE HOUSE
A little before noon. Cars line up along
the driveway single file, like half of Noah’s
beasts—Dad’s mostly restored Willys Wagon,
my Nissan (parked crooked, thanks so much, Nik),
Jake and Misty’s dirt-crusted blue Subaru,
Nikki’s mom’s showroom-clean Audi Quattro.
Her dad’s car—an amazing ’09 Z06 Corvette—
is conspicuously absent, but I wouldn’t expect
him to show this early, considering dinner
isn’t supposed to be served until late afternoon.
He’s probably six inches deep in his boss right now.
Poor Nikki’s mom. Guys are dogs. Woof, woof.
THIS DOG STARTS SALIVATING
As soon as the front door opens.
If
the chiduckey tastes even half
as good as it already smells,
Nikki is going to get an extra,
extra special thank-you tonight.
Maybe that cooking show paid
off after all. Dad and Jake are
in the living room, watching Big
Ten football and slurping brew.
I poke my head through
the archway, feign interest. “Hey,
honey, I’m home. What’s the score?”
Jake stands, offers his right
hand. All tied up, three-three.
Grab a beer and come sit down.
“Sure. Give me a few.” I follow
the drift of sage and rosemary
toward the kitchen, where
the women have gathered like
ravens to watch Mom crust
the prime rib with fresh ground
pepper and rock salt. Marie Haskins
doesn’t need cooking shows.
Experience trumps experiments.
It’s a scene right out of a movie.
Five women, all beautiful
within their own stages of life,
talking and laughing and drinking
wine. Golden-shelled pies decorate
the granite countertops, leak
scented steam, hinting at their
anonymous fillings. Bread
dough rises in yeasty grandeur,
and a chorus line of foil-wrapped
potatoes await their own turn in
the oven. It’s a scene right out
of a movie, okay. Artificial.
Look into any of these ladies’
eyes, I guarantee you’ll find
some manner of hurt. Something
to deny feasting and celebration.
Something to deny Thanksgiving.
CALL ME A CYNIC
You wouldn’t be inaccurate.
Then, again, neither is my assessment.
Conspicuously absent is one female
member of this family. Kristina
should be here for her kids.
And speaking of the demonic duo,
wonder what manner of evil David
and Donald are perpetrating right now.
Upstairs. In my former room.
I’ll check it out in a few. Meanwhile,
I probably should be social. “Hello,
ladies. Need any help?”
Mom says, Don’t think so. But thanks.
Misty says, How sweet of you to offer.
Leigh snorts, knowing the offer was
mostly empty. Nikki’s mom
turns rheumy eyes at me. Whoa.
How much wine has she sloshed already?
Nikki, sweet Nikki, sidles over, clearly
wanting to kiss me. Except
her mom is standing there staring.
Like I care. I reach, pull her right
up against me. “Your turkey thing smells
really good.” Then I whisper,
“But not as good as you,” and
I give her a giant lip smack, despite four
pairs of eyes pointed directly at the two
of us. Voyeurs deserve what they see.
Nikki smiles, but extricates herself
from my grasp and goes to be one
of the girls. Guess that’s my cue
to go be one of the guys.
I grab a beer from the fridge.
“Well, call if you need anything,” I lie.
When I turn, I notice David outside
the window playing with …
A NEW PUPPY
“Hey. No one told me you got
a new pup.” It’s been a few
months since Moxie died, at the ripe
old age of fourteen. Downright
elderly for a German shepherd.
Too quiet around here without
a dog, Mom says. Besides, we
thought it might be good for
the boys to have something
to love and take care of.
Or to dislike and mutilate.
Cynically speaking, of course.
David actually seems
to be enjoying the pup’s
company. I was just a little
younger when Moxie came
to us, all wiggly and yappy.
She grew into a straight-up
incredible dog, and I took
a fair amount of credit for that.
This puppy—Sasha, I’m told—
may be just the thing to bring
David and Donald out of
their shells. Only Donald, like
his mother, is obviously elsewhere.
I AM ON MY WAY
To check on his whereabouts
when the telephone rings. No
one else bothers, so I answer.
Hello? Who the fuck is this?
The always pleasant Ron.
I want to talk to Kristina.
“Uh, this is Hunter.” Wonder
if he even knows who I am.
“And Kristina isn’t here.”
I swear I can almost hear anger
swelling, pewter, in the silence.
Well, where the fuck is she?
My own temper kindles.
“I don’t know where she is,
Ron. She’s not my prob—”
She’s out fucking around on
me, isn’t she? Who is she with?
I swear, I’ll kick her ass.
“You already did that, dude.
Look. She isn’t here. I haven’t
seen her since last Christmas.”
Don’t lie to me, you little shit,
or I’ll kick your ass too. His
voice is a cougar’s sharp hiss.
His threat doesn’t scare me,
but it does piss me off. “You’re
going back to jail, you know….”
Dad materializes beside me,
takes the phone, calmly says,
Kristina isn’t here, Ron.
If you can’t find her, that’s
too bad, but it’s really not
our concern. What does concern
me is your ruining our holiday.
I’m going to hang up now.
Don’t call back. Today or ever.
Dad follows through, hangs
up, and that might be that except
A LOUD GASP
On the stairs makes Dad
and me wheel in unison. Donald.
Was that my dad? he shouts.
Why didn’t you let me talk to him?
My dad remains calm. Your father
didn’t ask to talk to you, Donald.
So? I wanted to talk to him.
You can’t keep me away from him.
Dad’s voice rises, ever so slightly.
No one’s trying to keep you away—
Yes, you are. I hate you. I hate
it here. I want to go home….
The poor kid totally breaks
down. Please. Let me go home.
Dad drops his voice a notch.
Look, son, you can’t go back there.
Liftoff again. Shut up. Shut up.
Yes, I can. Suddenly, something
flies by my face, barely clearing
my cheek before crashing into the wall.
“What the …?” I retrieve the now
useless thing, formerly my Wii controller.
Donald thumps up the stairs,
into his (my) room, slams the door.
Dad follows, and all of a sudden
a whole flock of women appears,
clucking like hens. We can all hear
Dad ask calmly, Please let me in.
Just another day (holiday) in
paradise, huh? Still holding most
of my beer, I go to join Jake,
cheer for no team in particular.
&n
bsp; Upstairs, Dad’s plea becomes
a demand. Open this damn door!
In the hallway, the hens are
still clucking away. And …
“Hey,” I yell. “Is something
burning?” Cluck-cluck-cluck. Bwoik!
I’m thinking a serious buzz
is in order. Beer will not do.
WHAT MAY DO
Is the pill potpourri
still in my pocket.
Who knows what
they might really do, if anything. I reach
for possible Nirvana,
swallow it down with
two gulps of beer. Wait.
I plop on the plush
leather sofa, fake cheer
when Wisconsin scores,
slug down more beer. Wait. About the time
I think I must have
gagged down placebos,
my brain goes fuzzy
and my tongue thickens
in my mouth. Behind
my forehead, a zzzzzz
sound lifts, like bees swarming, and my ears
feel like I’m diving
deep. Pressure. I close
my eyes, try to shut out
football. Shouting. Crying.
Clucking. Burnt butter
smell. Dinner should be
interesting. To say the least.
Autumn
WE’VE ALWAYS KEPT
Thanksgiving relatively low-key.
Grandfather. Aunt Cora. And me.
We spend the day cooking. Tasting.
Eating. Getting way too full. Just us.
But not this year. This year
we’re going to a big schmooze
at Liam’s parents’ house in Austin.
Aunt Cora wants to introduce us.
Not sure why she needed
to make the big intros today.
She knows how I feel about
breaking bread with total strangers.
Grandfather isn’t a whole
lot happier about it than I am.
But Aunt Cora can be pretty
convincing when she’s honey sweet.
It’s a skill I’m working hard on,
especially where Grandfather
is concerned. I’ve tried and tried
to get him to loosen my reins, at least
a little. It’s hard to maintain
a romance when most every
move is monitored. Grandfather
doesn’t trust me, which another time
I might find sort of funny. Me?
In need of watching? I mean,
considering his distrust took
root in a past defined by my father,
it’s not really fair to me.
Then again, considering
I’m not exactly anxious for