Everyone was congregated in the kitchen, including, at one point, Maria's two dogs, but she ordered them out along with their ringleader, Joey. Wine, beer and soda bottles were set out on the counter, and the table was laden with bowls of chips, bean dip, radishes, olives, crackers, pate and Joey's contribution, solid red Jell-O squares. Other dishes were in the oven. The turkey sat on a platter while Barry sharpened a knife.
Donna had taken a chair in a corner and wasn't saying much. At first Tillie was disappointed: she thought Donna might be annoyed about being dragged into the encounter the other night with Richard. But when Barry tried to speak to Donna a couple times and got a very cool response, it wasn't hard to guess that there must be something between them. Tillie asked her to put on some music—and then regretted doing so. Donna went out to her car and came back with a tape of screaming lyrics, jangling guitars, and a frenetic beat.
When the gravy was hot, the cranberry sauce dished up, and the turkey carved, Tillie proclaimed, “We're ready!” She almost turned the music off because it was getting on her nerves but, not wanting to offend Donna, turned it down instead.
They heard a car door slam, then another. They looked out the window. The car was parked next door. Walking up Ellen's driveway were Angela Rivera and a dark-haired, mustached man.
“Oh, for the love of—!” Ellen exclaimed. “What's she doing here?” Donna said.
“She said something weeks ago about our getting together for Thanksgiving dinner,” Ellen said. “But we never made any plans. She's just here to show off her new beau. Really, she is just too much.”
Tillie, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, peeked over their shoulders. “Oh my God,” she said. It's—”
“Angela,” said Donna. “No, but—”
“And her former brother-in-law,” Ellen added.
“Roscoe.” The two were on Ellen's doorstep and ringing the bell.
“Excuse me,” she said “I'll go shoo them away.”
“Wait,” said Tillie. This was a very strange turn, and something either perverse or magnanimous in her wanted to see where it would lead. “Let's invite them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, if you want their company,” said Tillie. “I'm happy to have them. They even brought a dish.”
Ellen pursed her lips. “It is Thanksgiving, I suppose. A time to share.”
Angela turned and saw them at the window. She gave a big wave.
Tillie opened the door and invited them in. Angela was brimming with thanks.
“So wonderful!” she said. “All these wonderful people and lovely food. So kind of you, Tillie.”
“I'm glad you could be here.”
“But you must meet Roscoe.” She introduced him around. Shaking hands, he gave Tillie a wink.
“We were just about to eat,” said Tillie.
Donna went to fetch Joey, and Maria followed to make sure that the dogs stayed out of the house. Then it was quiet enough for everyone to hear a very loud, clear voice shout, “No! Put that down!” And then Joey wailing. They all ran outside. Joey was clinging to Donna, who glared at Maria, who was shepherding her dogs to a corner of the yard and commanding them to lie down.
“What's going on?” Ellen demanded.
Donna shook her head in disbelief. “Joey was just going to give the dog a cracker. He about jumped out of his skin when Maria yelled at him.”
“I'm sorry,” said Maria, “but I don't let my dogs eat people food. I was yelling at Tasha, not you, Joey. I didn't mean to scare you, honey. I should have asked you earlier not to feed them.”
Joey sniffled; Donna stroked his head.
“Well, what's the big deal about a dog eating a cracker?” said Angela indignantly. “Let the boy play with the dog.”
“It's not good for the dog,” said Maria firmly. “They eat only dog food, and feeding them outside of meal time just teaches them to beg.”
Angela appealed to Roscoe, who shrugged his shoulders.
“She's right,” he said simply.
“I see! Everybody's an expert! Angela stalked back to the house.
“I can't see that one cracker—” said Ellen.
“Speaking of eating,” said Tillie, “shall we? Things are getting cold.”
They all trooped back to the kitchen. As they piled their plates with food and found a place to sit in the living room, a few of them made an attempt at good cheer. Tillie sat in a folding chair and took a big swallow of wine. She was exhausted. She hadn't been sleeping well for several nights. Even though she felt good about her painting and her hike, when she lay down her mind started racing with anxieties about this dinner. She worried about getting the turkey done right, rehearsed over and over the order in which she would do the cleaning, cooking, and setting up. She worried that without Hooper to play the charming host, things would fall flat. It was almost the same group of people who had shared an impromptu pizza party a month or so before, but this time, she had worked hard to make it a success and so set herself up for failure. Still groggy when she woke up, she nevertheless had risen early, took a long walk, chopped onions and cried over them, stuffed a turkey, sauced cranberries, peeled yams, scrubbed the bathroom and dusted the hardwood floors. Sitting down to relax for the first time that day, she looked at her food and for some moments didn't have the heart to even raise her fork.
On the one side of her was Angela, who, seemingly over her snit, was busily engaging Roscoe's attention, inviting him to try some of her eggplant dish. On the other side was Barry, morosely watching Donna across the room as she helped Joey with his food. Maria, sitting next to Ellen on the couch, was gamely trying to make small talk, but Ellen was not cooperating. Tillie, for her part, would have liked to talk with Roscoe, but Angela's square shoulder prevented that. The dynamics of the group were evolving as awkwardly as she had feared.
Roscoe complimented her on the turkey. Angela remarked that it was a little dry.
Maria caught Tillie's eye and winked. “I think everything is great. Especially the Jell-O squares.”
“Too bad the dogs can't have any,” Angela said, almost under her breath. Maria rolled her eyes.
“More for us,” said Roscoe.
Seeing Donna needed a napkin, Barry jumped up from his seat and handed her one.
“Can I get you something else?” he asked. “Another roll? More turkey?”
“No, thanks.” Donna wiped a spill on Joey's shirt.
Barry went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine. He refilled Maria's and Roscoe's glasses, then offered some to Donna.
“No, really, I'm fine,” she insisted, but he started to pour anyway. “Barry, don't.” She grabbed at her cup, spilling the wine.
“Uh-oh,” said Joey.
Barry stepped back as though bitten. “I'm sorry. Did I get any on you? I'm so sorry.”
“It's okay.” Her tone softened, but she still sounded exasperated. “It won't show on my tights. But the rug.”
“Don't worry about it.” With a wet sponge and some paper towels, Tillie got on her knees and started scrubbing while the others watched quietly. The area rug was multi-colored, so it wouldn't show a stain badly, but Tillie was discouraged. All her good intentions, and the evening had been reduced to an irritable uneasiness among the guests, a kitchen full of dirty dishes, and more uneaten food than would fit in the fridge. She wondered why she ever thought she could pull this off.
“What is this music?” Ellen demanded. “It's mine,” said Donna curtly. Back in the kitchen Tillie drew a deep breath. There was nothing to do but see this through and hope they would all leave soon. She would try to hurry dessert along.
She heard the music stop, and a moment later the overture from La Traviata began. Joining her in the kitchen, Donna touched her shoulder and thanked her for dinner. Together they cleared the table, emptied leftovers into plastic tubs, and started loading the dishwasher. Donna whipped the cream. Already Tillie's mood was lighter. While she ground the coffee beans, measured water, and started the coffee brewing, “Sempre Libero” filled the house. As always, the waltz brought to her mind a grand ballroom and carefree society, women in frothy gowns dancing with gallant men.
Returning to the living room, they found Maria trying to teach Joey to waltz.
“Stand on my feet.” She held his hands and shuffled her feet. “One-two-three, one-two-three,” she chanted, but Joey was giggling too much to follow.
“Who wants pie?” Tillie asked. Everyone did.
***
Hooper could scarcely refrain from skipping. It had snowed the night before and he loved it. The crunch under his feet, the new white on the ground and trees and roofs, the feeling of holiday, all reminded him of what fun winter could be. His belly was full of turkey dinner and he anticipated pie and coffee when he and Tom returned after their walk. The only thing missing was Tillie.
Jenny had prepared a fine meal with all the trimmings, even though there were just the three of them. The house looked nice, Hooper thought: comfortable antiques, artwork on the walls. Jenny had good taste. It wasn't the house Hooper and Tom grew up in—more refined, less cluttered—but he found he didn't mind someone else's touch. Filled with the smells of dinner and warmed by a fire in the fireplace, the place was homey and welcoming. Starting early in the afternoon, they went through two bottles of Beaujolais nouveau, stuffed themselves, laughed, teased each other. Finally full, they pushed themselves away from the table and plopped themselves in the living room.
Tom suggested they go for a walk while it was still light, and Jenny said she would stay behind to clean up. They protested; she insisted. She'd had her exercise earlier, she said. Hooper was torn, remembering how his mother had always spent the holidays in the kitchen, but he was dying to go outside and play before it got dark. Finally, Jenny agreed to save some dishes for the men to clean up later, and so they put on coats and scarves and headed for the park.
“Dinner was fun,” Hooper said. “I'm having a good time.”
“Me, too,” said Tom. “So what do you think will happen?”
“Who knows.” Tom thought for a moment. “She seems happier lately. To tell you the truth, it's kind of thrown me off.”
“You don't think it'll last?”
Tom shrugged. “We talked last night. She wants to slow things down. With the divorce, I mean.”
“Do you want to?”
“I don't know. I don't know how I feel about anything right now.”
Reaching the park, they were greeted by three dogs who raced up to them, sniffed their pant legs, then charged off. Among the trees they could see groups of people, their coats and hats bright patches of color. Tramping along the snowy path, they circled the soccer field and descended a small hill to the lake. They stood for a few moments and took in the scene. A small flock of sea gulls, resting on thin patches of ice, appeared to be standing on the water. The elms across the lake were bare limbs, blurred like a pencil smudge. Just beyond, cars on the expressway hummed; otherwise, it was a peaceful place.
They turned and climbed the steps behind the old casino. Topping the rise, they were greeted by chaos on the hillside: children sledding, screaming, and laughing in the snow. Flying down the hill with abandon, their saucers turning sideways and backwards, they nearly crashed into each other countless times. Parents cradled toddlers on plastic toboggans and whooped as they completed the run, and small figures bundled in snowsuits struggled to tow their sleds back to the top. It wasn't a very big hill, but that was in fact its charm: little kids were safe on it, and bigger kids could run back up endlessly, until they either collapsed from exhaustion or were dragged away by cold-toed parents.
“Shakespeare Hill,” said Hooper. “I used to spend a lot of time here in the summers, do you remember? I crewed for the Shakespeare festival. I even did some bit parts for the Green Show.” Although he had already told Tom a bit about the Stone Soup Theater, he went on about on the hard-working people involved and the pleasure he took in directing. Although he'd been tired of it when he left, from this perspective he found he could take pride in what he'd done.
Listening to Hooper's boasting, Tom felt the old jealousy welling up in him. Now he would not even be able to visit Shakespeare Hill without thinking that his brother laid claim to that, too.
“I guess you're a natural,” he said. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you're good at directing things, setting up a scene the way you want it. Like you did my apartment.”
“Oh.” Hooper mulled that over. “I thought you liked that. I was just trying to—”
“I know, you were trying to be nice.” Tom faced his brother. “So was I, when I thanked you for it. But, to be honest? It felt like you were telling me I was too incompetent to do it on my own. Like you had to step in and fix at least part of my life.”
“No, I never meant—”
“I'm sure you didn't. I'm just telling you, I'm not a complete screw-up, even if it looks that way.”
“I never thought that,” Hooper insisted. He kicked at the wet snow, resisting the urge to shake Tom instead. So much for his good mood all afternoon, the hope that they might finally connect. But if Tom wanted to have it out, then goddamn it, he would.
“You know, Tom, I'm not sure what you were hoping for this week, but I feel like I've been as welcome as a leg cramp. I'd like to be able to talk with you without pissing you off, but I don't seem to be able to. I thought I could help you out, but obviously I've done a crappy job.”
“Do you think that's why I invited you, because I need help?” Tom snapped.
“No, I don't think that. I don't know why you invited me.” Hooper threw up his hands. “Why don't you tell me?”
Staring off at the sledders, Tom bit his lip. “I don't know, either.”
Keeping his curses to himself, Hooper reflected that this week must mark the death of their relationship. The divide between them had deepened irreparably, and he knew he was somehow to blame. The only thing he could do now was to pour out apologies, however useless they might be, sometime before he left. For being insensitive, overbearing, nosy—whatever. For being an older brother. Being himself.
Tom fished a tissue out of his pocket. Wiping his numb, runny nose, he was convinced that he would never learn to feel at ease in his skin, never understand what it meant to love someone. It was too hard to express his feelings; wanting to sound firm and confident, he was merely petty and defensive. Better to just give up.
“I don't know who I'm kidding,” he said slowly. “I do need help; I am a loser. I'm so hopeless, Hoop. I can't do a goddamn thing right.”
“You know that's not true.” Hooper put his arm across his shoulders, gave him a hug. He felt a huge relief: he still had a chance to do right. “And by the way, I do know why you invited me.”
Tom waited.
“Because you knew it was the right thing to do,” said Hooper. “Because you love your family. And because you're a brave man. It's not easy, trying to get along with me.”
Blowing his nose, Tom didn't try to hide his tears.
“And you're right about one thing,” Hooper went on. “I have been an egotistical pain in the ass. All my life. Trying to grab all the attention, ignoring the talents of other people. I thought I was special.” He had to pause, swamped by regret.
“I'm sorry I butted into your life, Tom. I really came to hang out with you, and that should have been enough.”
Tom attempted a smile. “Well. I'm sorry I don't show it, but I'm glad you came.”
“Me, too.” Hooper stamped his feet; it was getting cold. “We should get back. But there's one thing I want to do first.”
“What's that?”
Hooper had trotted a few steps away and was already forming a snowball.
“Oh, no, you don't.” Tom was quicker, landing one on Hooper's shoulder; Hooper got Tom in the chest. Bursting with sudden energy, Tom tackled his brother and they both landed in the snow. Hooper yelped.
“I'm sorry: are you hurt?”
“No, I'm okay.” Hooper pushed himself up on his knees. Scooping up some more snow, he pitched it at Tom, who pelted him with another handful. Hooper gathered up more, hesitated, and dumped it on his own head. The ice slid down his temples and behind his ears. Taking off his wet glasses, he shook his head vigorously.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, as though surfacing from a sudden cold plunge.
Tom offered his hand and pulled him up.
“Shall we go home?” He handed Hooper a clean tissue for his glasses. “There's still pie to eat.”
***
Ellen, who stayed to help clean up, was the last to leave. Tillie poured herself another glass of wine, started La Traviata over again, and sat down in the office. The room was subtly fragrant with oil and turpentine. Illuminated only by the ambient city light through the windows, her paintings seemed vaguely animated. A number of sketches on paper were scattered on the floor, while three canvases, all still rough and evolving, were sitting on newsprint and leaning against the windows. One perched on the easel.
The largest canvas depicted a scene borrowed once again from a photo, but this attempt was more successful than the last. Hooper had taken the shot on a camping trip in the Mogollon Wilderness, during the one summer they had the dog. In Tillie's version, a female figure lay in the grass, a book beside her, a stream beyond, and a dog by her head. At one point, she had become discouraged trying to render a serene look on the woman's face and wiped off the features in disgust; and then, dissatisfied with the stiff pose of the dog, she brushed yellow paint around the figures' heads as though to point arrows at the problem. Setting it aside, she saw that a beatific glow radiated from the two. The dog's tense posture suggested greater vigilance, and the woman without features was more peaceful than the one with closed eyes, so Tillie let them be.
The second painting was unlike anything she'd ever done: it was simply a collage of hands in various poses, some in shades of brown and black, some copper and silver. She didn't much like the results, but the execution had been a pleasure, since she'd used her fingers and even the heel of her hand to smudge in the paint. Before she set it aside she had rubbed her hands together, thoroughly coating her fingers and palms with the dark, oily stuff.
Another painting, strangely enough, was influenced by Richard's work at the gallery. Tillie had noticed that his full-length portraits, those robust and imposing figures, did not have shadows. The effect was disconcerting, perhaps intentionally so; it was as though these people existed in a world without context, as though they didn't walk on the ground. Perhaps, she thought wryly, they were meant to be angels. She had the idea—hardly an idea, more of an instinct—to provide them shadows to have in reserve, like spare tires. Setting up her articulated wooden model in front of a bright light, she studied the shadow and scratched the shape onto a canvas; then she changed the pose twice more and added those shadows to the same composition. She'd painted the ground a Dijon yellow, and tomorrow she would paint the shadows in charcoal grays flecked with other, more lively colors. It was more of an exercise than painting, but she wanted to follow it through.
The inspiration for the last painting was a mystery to her. Although her little wooden figure, which was not much bigger than a Barbie doll, posed for her willingly, she longed for a live model. No matter how often she drew from life in her classes, she had found it a thrill. To stare at flesh and know it was unique to that person; to realize this woman was baring her very private self to you; to see this man's chest rise with each breath and his cheek twitch with fatigue: it gave a spark to one's own movement with pencil on paper. The day before, sketching idly, she had contrived something nonsensical but remarkable: a figure whose arms were uplifted and whose head was detached, hovering over the body. It made her laugh, but at the same time she found it so compelling an idea that she unscrewed the full-length mirror from the closet door and brought it into the office. Then she took off her clothes. This figure had to be a woman, and she ought to be drawn from life, she reasoned; and after a couple hours of posing and painting she had to put on her warmest sweater and drink some hot tea. The result was worth the chill, however. Against a nondescript background suggesting a red rock desert, she'd described a woman in quick, sure strokes, with her arms outstretched ecstatically, her head flying off toward the edge of the canvas, a secret smile on her face. Tillie stared at it a long time, uncertain what sort of emotion it stirred in her.
She looked out the window into the yard. It wasn't a very interesting yard when they first moved in, mostly dirt, but Hooper had made some improvements recently. He'd laid out a small brick patio and bought a table and chairs; he rented a Rototiller and dug up the soil, effacing the square scars where he had attempted garden plots in the past. This past summer he had bought a number of whiskey barrels and planted tomatoes, peppers, herbs, and marigolds. He'd also planted a grapefruit tree last spring, in hopes that they would see some fruit in a couple years. She smiled, thinking of the origin of that tree. The morning after he planted it, he made her pancakes for breakfast and insisted they eat outside, where she drank coffee and ate grapefruit and finally noticed that the little tree was laden with huge yellow globes of the fruit, and oranges and lemons as well.
“It's a miracle,” he said matter-of-factly. Congratulating him on his green thumb, she admired the tree from a distance, although she could still see strings tied around the fruit.
A movement from Barry's house caught her eye, and she saw him step out of the sliding glass door into the shadows. He was naked, perfectly naked, and yet she wasn't surprised. All she could think was that it must be cold out there. He stared for a moment up at the sky, at the stars and maybe the moon, then stretched up his arms and wiggled his fingers as though tickling some big belly. He turned and disappeared inside.
What Tillie didn't know was that his phone was ringing, and when he picked it up he heard Donna's voice.