The next year’s Thanksgiving visit almost didn’t happen.
The weather report was for an epic amount of snow and we talked about staying home. Well, I talked about it, anyway. Becky wouldn’t listen.
“We have to do Thanksgiving with my family, I’ve never missed it,” Becky said. We were both in the bedroom getting dressed for the day. “Besides, it’s Joey’s birthday exactly today. He’s turning twenty. We have to be there for that.”
“I don’t want to drive home in a blizzard,” I said, looking anxiously out our apartment window. The sky was grey and ominous, but no flakes were falling yet.
“Mom says the weather is fine down by her,” Becky said, “And worst is, we’ll sleep at my parents’ if we’re stuck.”
I liked the Wisniewskis well enough but crashing at their house — marinating in potpourri and surrounded by my mother-in-law’s “Gone With the Wind” platter collection in the guest room — did not appeal.
I was about to press things further, when I heard a sob from behind me. I turned and saw my wife standing there in her cute, white bra and panties, holding up her dress like it was a dead body.
I took the frock out of her hand, black and velvety, and saw that the zipper had ripped right out of the lining.
“It’s fine, honey, you have plenty of other clothes,” I said.
“It’s not that,” Becky said. She dropped onto the bed, disconsolate. “It’s everything.”
That she reacted so dramatically about something so small should have been surprising. Sadly, it was nothing new. My wife’s malaise had begun with her thirtieth birthday, only a few months before. Suddenly, everything seemed to make her upset or angry. We’d been fighting more, as well.
“That whole reorganization at work, the thing with the car, and now you want me to miss Thanksgiving? I can’t do it, Drew, I just can’t.”
I sat next to Becky and put my arm around her. “I’m not keeping you from your family,” I said, firmly.
“No, I know,” Becky said, “It’s just a lot of stuff, you know?”
I did. Becky had been talking about quitting her job and going back to school. I was dreaming on buying a house and hopefully having kids. For the first time in our relationship, we were in two different places. That made it hard for us to work together.
“Look, I care about you,” I said, meaning it. “A lot. I know this has been a tough year for you. I want us to get through it together.”
Becky leaned her head on my shoulder. “I love you so much,” she said.
“I love you, too,” I said, and kissed her forehead. I picked up the dress and took another look. “I think I can fix this, if you give me a minute.”
I managed to sew the zipper back in, then handed the dress to my wife. As Becky got ready, I got in the shower and got dressed in a pair of tan, corduroy slacks and a light blue dress shirt with a navy sweater vest.
I was thirty-two and married, but I wasn’t looking the part yet. My light brown hair was only starting to thin at the top, barely noticeable. I was tall and broad-shouldered. Years of running had kept my body trim. Most people at work were surprised when they found out I was already in my thirties. At that point in my life, looking young was a good problem to have.
As I finished buttoning up my shirt, I saw Becky was doing her makeup in the mirror, and I made a point of paying her a compliment.
“You look pretty,” I told my wife.
“It’s only my family,” Becky said, “We’re not hitting up the clubs.” She kissed my cheek, then stopped, as if something had just occurred to her. “Hey, if you’re lucky, maybe Sierra will be there.”
I snorted. I knew how college relationships worked. There was no way that amazing woman was still together with Joey.
* * * * *
It started to flurry on the drive down the Turnpike. By the time we arrived at Becky’s parents’ house the snow had gotten heavy. Every movement seemed to echo in the emptiness as we climbed out of the car. The wind whined and howled. There was something peaceful about the way the suburban neighborhood was wrapped in an ever-growing blanket of snow.
Becky’s Mom met us at the door. She quickly said hello, then grabbed Becky’s hand and pulled her back to the kitchen.
“Harold’s in the den,” she told me. My assignment was clear. Sit quietly as my father-in-law watched football. Everything else, apparently, was women’s work.
Sure enough, I found Mr. Wisniewski half asleep in his La-Z-Boy. He grunted and handed me a beer as I sat down on the couch. Coming from Harold Wisniewski, that was the equivalent of a warm hug.
I heard footsteps by the door and looked over. It was Joey and, Christmas miracle come early, Sierra. The beautiful college girl looked even better than I remembered. She was wearing a pink, fluffy sweater and a dark skirt. Her long brown was hair tied back. Her cheeks slightly pink. Sierra’s body had both slimmed down and filled out in all the right ways. Like a sculptor was slowly bringing her into perfect form. If she continued to progress this way, in about two years she was going to be so radiant I wouldn’t be able to look directly at her.
I got up and said hi, shaking Joey’s hand and wishing him a happy birthday. Unlike the rest of us who were looking nice for the occasion, the skinny boy was wearing a paint-spattered t-shirt and jeans.
Sierra leaned over to give me a hug hello. I did my best to make it quick, keeping our bodies as far apart as possible. It was like hugging a landmine, any closer and all sort of things might go off.
“Oh nice,” Sierra said, looking behind me at the game, “Stafford’s on my fantasy team.”
“Cool, I’ve got Golladay going,” I said.
“Excellent,” Sierra said, giving me a fist bump as she flopped onto the couch.
“I’m going to go see if I can help Mom and Becky,” Joey said, then left the room. The three of us nodded distractedly as he left.
It wasn’t long before we were called in to dinner. As per tradition, the table was overfull with food. It was more than six people could ever eat in a week, let alone one night. Conversation was muted, but we gradually stopped stuffing our faces to talk a little bit.