The You I've Never Known(50)

Gabe and I go directly to work

in the kitchen while the so-called adults disappear, ostensibly to watch at least most of the Macy’s Parade. If that’s really what they’re up to, it’s a definite first for Dad.

Has Zelda domesticated the man?

Gabe attempts to domesticate

me, giving instructions on how

much celery and onion to chop

and sauté for the stuffing while he rinses the turkey and pats

it dry so the skin will crisp.

His expertise soon becomes evident.

“You’ll make some woman

a very good wife,” I kid. “In fact, will you marry me? I could use one of those.” That was totally off

the wall, and he wastes little time pouncing on the obvious.

Thought you wanted a female wife.

I absorb the remark, consider its implications. Rather than respond right away, I watch Gabe lift the stuffed, trussed bird into the oven, admiring both his culinary talent and the muscle required to heft eighteen pounds of poultry.

“I’m not interested in matrimony.”

I realize there’s truth in the statement.

With the rare exception of Monica’s parents, I’ve never seen marriage work.

I’ve witnessed divorce. Widowhood.

Spinsterhood. Remarriage, and failure repeated. Oh, and of course, desertion.

“Anyway, what if you flip me straight?”

That almost sounds like a challenge, doesn’t it? Not surprisingly, he takes it that way, and I appreciate that.

He crosses the kitchen in two long strides, pulls me into his arms, kisses me in a decisively masculine way.

I’m willing to give it a try if you are.





We’ve Been Borderline


A time or two, but still

haven’t gone all the way, mostly because I’m scared.

Scared it will hurt.

Scared it will define me.

Scared I might like it too much.

Pressed tightly together, heart rates rising in sync, I can feel him grow rigid against me and it would be a lie if I said it didn’t excite me, and in a completely

different way than Monica did. If we were somewhere private, I’d give him the chance, despite my trepidation, to try and flip me right this minute.

But that isn’t the case, so we cool things off, mutually satisfied that a wordless promise was just exchanged between the two of us.





For Now


We pour eggnogs, discuss

spiking them, decide to wait until later for alcohol, if we choose to imbibe at all.

We carry drinks into the living room, which is empty except for the giant balloons floating along a New York City avenue twenty-five hundred miles away, yet visible right here in California, thanks to technology. We sit to watch the end of the parade and eventually Dad and Zelda escape her bedroom, and head outside for a smoke. I’m not sure if it’s Gabe’s regular presence here or mine once in a while, but Zelda’s house never seems to wear the intolerable scent of tobacco.

She’s a polite smoker by choice.

Eggnog, huh? Dad stops on the way by, lifts my glass, and sniffs. It’s no good without booze.

Pretty sure I’m glad it’s virgin.





Apparently Brining Works


Because the turkey is juicy

and flavorful, and the stuffing absorbs much deliciousness.

I skip the mashed potatoes,

reach instead for yams, not

candied but simply baked

and dripping melted butter.

“This is the most I’ve ever

eaten in one sitting by far!”

Still, I mop up the last drips

of gravy with a dinner roll.

Dad watches, then comments,

If you ate like that every day you’d need bigger clothes.

Better skip the pumpkin pie.

Gabe shoots me a sympathetic

eye roll. Ariel eats like a canary.

I think she can manage one piece of pie without requiring a whole new wardrobe.

As much as I appreciate Gabe

sticking up for me, Dad’s been

drinking for hours. This could

could go badly or he could

laugh it off. I cringe, waiting.

But it’s Zelda who takes on Dad.

Hey, Mark. Isn’t it you who always says you like your women with a little extra padding? Or was that something you made up to make little ol’ me feel better?

Either way, this girl’s having pie, though it might have to wait for an hour or so.

Dad chooses to plaster a grin

on his face. Y’all are right. My girl is a little bird. One meal won’t make her a blimp, will it?

He stares across the table at me, and with one sudden vicious

verbal blow knocks the air

from my gut, and from my lungs:

Too damn bad she looks so much like her fucking whore mother.

I push back from the table

hard, a reservoir of invective

threatening to burst the dam.

But just as I’m about to free

it, a thought dashes across my

mind: What if this is his way

of proving me too irrational

to merit a driver’s license?





I Stay in My Chair


Zelda jumps to her feet, inviting Dad’s anger simply by warning,