Becoming: A Perfect Holiday

“Betty, where’d you put the big platter. You know we’ll need it for the turkey.” ‘You know’ meaning she’d already failed by not having the platter in the kitchen. This yelled from the kitchen. Mom was in the bathroom. I knew she was pretending not to hear.

We were having Dad’s nephew and family over for Thanksgiving.

At times like this, I usually disappear. Outside, if the weather allowed, the basement or my room, if not. But today was special. I was required to be available. So, I went to my alternate, but not-so-distant place, under the dining room table. Shielded from view. Close enough to leap into action. With its oversized chocolate-brown tablecloth hanging over all four sides, it was a pretty good sanctuary. Although today, given that it was T-day, the dining room table was the focus of the action. Given the day, playing with my little men on the darkly polished, curving supports of the table, with its brass toe-protecting caps, wasn’t nearly as satisfying. In fact, it was nerve-racking.

I heard the toilet flush and knew Mom would take her time washing her hands.

Dad was making more noise than necessary in the kitchen. A sign that ‘things’ were not right. A sign that ‘things’ would soon get worse.

I knew without looking that Mom’s eyes would still be watery, given the outburst that had sent her to the bathroom.

“Betty, where are our best carving knife and fork?”

“Ted, I’ll find them. I put them in a safe place.”

“Can you find that safe place?” Said with as much irony as he could pile into it. Usually, according to Dad, Mom’s “safe places’ were unfindable.

“I’ll find them. They’re in the cedar chest. I put them there when we started having the holidays at the Sklorenko’s.”

Walter Sklorenko was Dad’s nephew. Walter was married to Artell. Together, they had six children. The two oldest, Leslie Carol and Connie, were closest in age to me. Leslie was in her senior year of high school, and Connie, a year or so younger than me, was in her last year of middle school.

Now, with the ongoing search for the Cedar Chest for the carving set, I was between Mom and Dad. Not good. Dad in the kitchen on one side, and Mom kneeling by the Cedar Chest on the other. Dad banging pots and pans. Mom, in her nylon’s, sensible high-heeled blocky shoes, best dress, holiday apron, was on the other side of the table, carefully removing things from the chest in search of the carving tools.

Wondering if I could get away with going to the basement, I began to gather up my little men to escape when Mom asked, “Teddy, would you go to the downstairs bedroom and get the holiday napkins and table topper out of the bottom drawer of the dresser?”

“Betty,” Dad in his correcting voice, “we don’t want to use those. They’re Christmassy. This is Thanksgiving.” He paused for a moment, and I heard the signature creak of the oven door opening. Then slam shut. The spring on the oven door always did that. “Have you found those carving tools yet? The turkey is almost done. They’ll be here any minute.”

I waited. Go to the downstairs bedroom? Or…

Mom continued, “The Christmas napkins and table topper need to be washed. Please put them in the dirty clothes hamper. That way I’ll remember to get at least that done before Christmas.”

Dad, overhearing this, in his corrective voice, said, “The last time we used them, they smelled awful.” My hope of escape dimmed when Dad, after further thought, said, “Teddy, don’t do that now, I need you in the kitchen.”

Now I’m stuck, pulled into the center of the wildly fluctuating feelings swirling about the room that were steadily moving towards critical mass.

Dad, now with his projecting voice, “Betty, have you found the carving set? I could use some help in here.” It dawned on me that the Cedar Chest, like the bathroom, was Mom’s small escape place. A tiny bit of safety during escalating turmoil.

Mom found the set, and she found the other quality napkins, the ones appropriate for fancy dinners, and was now carefully repacking the Cedar Chest when I decided it was safe to support Mom’s request to put the Christmas napkins in the wash, ‘cause moving fast, I could do that and report to the kitchen in less than a heartbeat.

“Where, ya going, Teddy?”

Oops, wrong choice. Dad must have caught me out of the corner of his eye as I’d started down the hall. Without a word, I turned and entered the kitchen. “How can I help?”

Now, Mom had the Turkey half out of the oven and was checking the temperature. Dad leaning over, checking the temp himself. Mom said, “I think it needs another half hour.”

I could see the turkey barely fit. It was big. With eleven of us for dinner, Dad had worried that there wouldn’t be enough for everyone. Mom assured him that with all the other dishes, there would be plenty. Plus, Artell and the older girls were bringing sweet potatoes, a salad, pecan, and pumpkin pies.

Mom said, “Teddy, start mashing the potatoes,” as she poured the water off, placed the pot on the drain board, and handed me the masher.

Dad checked his watch and, in his demanding voice, said, “They should have been here an hour ago.” As if by saying it, they would magically appear. I focused on the potatoes and made myself small.

Then it happened.

Holding the pot of boiling green beans, Dad turned quickly, hitting Mom. The pot went flying. Mom went down.

“Betty, you gotta stay outa my way when I’m cooking.”

On the floor, clearly crying silently, Mom was picking up beans as fast as possible. Her right arm red where the pot had hit.

Dad, on repeat now, to make sure we all know who was at fault, says, “God damn it, Betty, you gotta stay outa the way.”

Just then, the Sklorenkos were pouring through the front door with all the hubbub of a happy arrival. I darted into the front room to escape, connect with the girls, relieved with the distraction.

Walter and Artell went to the kitchen, where Artell instantly figured out the scene. Walt took a look and retreated to the living room, grabbing the newspaper as he passed the desk. Artell helped Mom to her feet and got her arm under the facet, cold water running. Leslie Carol wrapped ice in a dish towel.

Dad said to all of us in his voice of logical explanation, “I don’t know how anything gets done around here, Betty’s just so damned clumsy.”

Connie looked at me with teen wisdom and whispered, “Let’s listen to your West Side Story album.” Thirteen and knowing this drama well, she headed up the stairs to my bedroom, leaving the crashing of utensils and soothing voices of Artell and Mom trying to calm Dad behind. I followed Connie up the stairs, feeling the relief that always comes with exiting.

We both know the ‘blame the mothers’ game.

We were midway through the album when Leslie Carol called us down to dinner.