Ask the Passengers
Page 53
They say:
They say:
Ellis still won’t talk to me, and I’m really not sure why.
She walks past the living room while I sit here writing in my Socrates Project journal. She doesn’t stop and say hi, even though she slowed a bit as if she was going to come in and watch TV. Makes me feel like I should go to the quiet room instead because this is the only TV room we have, but then I figure if she wants to watch TV, she can come in and watch it. I forget about it and go back to writing.
“Where’s you father?” Mom asks.
She starts to move toward the back door, and I say, “I think he’s clearing off the bench so we can make a new birdhouse.”
“That one in the maple is about to turn to dust. It could use a replacement.” She stands and drums her fingers on her thigh and then walks away.
I watch her walk away, and I realize that maybe I have more in common with Claire than I think. Maybe deep down, she doesn’t want to be here, either. Deep down, I do think I’m smarter than those twelve NO votes in humanities class last week. I did use Jeff Garnet as a disposable person—and while it was Kristina’s idea, I still went along with it, using his annoying leg-jiggling as an excuse. And really, who cares if the kid jiggles his leg?
Dinner is at three, and as tradition dictates, we all go upstairs and dress up a little. Dad puts on his cubicle blazer and a dress shirt with his jeans. Very Dude. I’m pretty sure he’s not stoned, too, which is great.
Mom puts on a work suit. With heels. Of course.
I wear a cool miniskirt I got last Christmas and my favorite turtleneck and a pair of black dress boots I never wear because they’re a little too small for me and they hurt my feet if I have to walk in them. I’m pretty sure the last time I wore them was last Thanksgiving.
While Mom carves the turkey, Dad dishes the carrots and corn and mashed potatoes and gravy into their respective bowls, and I fill the water glasses with ice cubes and water.
Then Ellis arrives at the table in sweats. I’m pretty sure they’re dirty sweats. She smells a bit like a hamper. She doesn’t offer to help, and just sits in her seat while the rest of us do stuff.
When the turkey is on the hot plate and covered in sufficient gravy, we sit in our chairs, and Mom starts the toast with her wineglass raised.
“To family,” she says. She tears up on the second syllable of family. Sniff. “To all the things we have to be thankful for.”
Dad clears his throat and raises his glass. “To a new start.” He nods to me.
I raise my water glass. “To love,” I say.
We all look to Ellis. Her hand isn’t anywhere near her glass. She’s just staring into space until it’s time to eat.
Mom says, “Ellis.”
She acts deaf.
Dad says, “Ellis.”
She sighs and raises her glass. “Here’s to bullshit,” she says.
And I can’t help it—I laugh so hard that I make her laugh, too. And that makes Dad and Mom laugh, too—in that order.
“To bullshit!” I repeat, and take a gulp of water.
“To bullshit!”
“To bullshit!”
“You smell,” I tell Ellis while we’re doing dishes.
“I tried,” she says.
“Dude, we have a lot of Thanksgivings in front of us. Why don’t we agree to make them atypical and cool instead of bullshit?”
“Are you going to wear those boots every year?”
“Probably. Why? Do they bug you?”
“You bug me.”
“Damn. You’re pissy.”
“I was kidding.”
“You need to warn a girl before you turn on her like that,” I say.
“I was kidding,” she says again while I’m passing her a really hot rinsed dish so she can dry it.
“No, you weren’t,” I say. She fumbles the dish and blows on her fingers.
We wash and dry in relative quiet for a while. I finally get to the soakers—the rack from the turkey and the bottom of the roaster—and I fill them with scalding-hot water and leave them to sit in the sink while I wipe down the kitchen table and the countertops.
“I’m gonna go get dressed,” Ellis says.
“Good.”
She starts toward the stairs.
“You know, you bug me, too. I’m just nice enough not to mention it,” I say.
“You just mentioned it.”
“So we’re even, then.”
I wipe down the stove top and replace the covers on the rings and then rinse my dishcloth and drape it over the drying rack.
Mom and Dad are bloating on the couch. I choose not to interrupt, and go to the quiet room and close the door. I dial Dee’s number.
She answers and says, “Hey! Happy Thanksgiving! Tell me everything!”
“How about I miss you? Like crazy?”
“That’s a good start. How are your mom and dad dealing?”
“It’s been okay, I guess,” I say.
“They didn’t beat you with canes or anything, did they?”
“Sorta.”
“What?”
“No, Dee. They didn’t beat me with any canes. Seriously.”
“You still love me?”
“More than a pilot loves air traffic control, baby. You still love me?”
“More than I love to nap after eating too much turkey.”
After a twenty-minute conversation, I check on my soaking dishes and find Mom attacking the roaster pan with a scrub pad.
“I was going to do that,” I say. “After they soaked.”
“It’s fine. You did all the rest. Go and relax.”
Dad is in the living room with his eyes closed, his pants unbuttoned, and the TV on. Ellis is sitting next to him, watching whatever is on TV. I decide I need to have a chat with my passengers because everything is different now, so I put on my coat and scarf and hat and grab the wool blanket off the back of the couch.
I hoist myself onto the picnic table and lie down, and as my eyes adjust to the bright four o’clock sky, I squint a little and look for planes.
They’re flying low, heading for the small regional airport. I’m pretty sure one of them is a twin-engine commuter. The other is a military plane. I concentrate on the commuter and send my love.
Everything ended up working out okay so far. Even with my parents. And maybe even with Ellis.
The nice thing about the passengers is they can’t say anything back. I can’t see any faces full of disappointment. I can’t hear them saying bad things about me. I can’t hear them call me the politically correct term for Indian giver… on Thanksgiving Day. Anyway, it’s not like I want my love back. I’m just slowing down business. They can have a little. I can say, “I love you!” when I see a plane. I probably always will. But they can’t have all my love.
They say:
Ellis still won’t talk to me, and I’m really not sure why.
She walks past the living room while I sit here writing in my Socrates Project journal. She doesn’t stop and say hi, even though she slowed a bit as if she was going to come in and watch TV. Makes me feel like I should go to the quiet room instead because this is the only TV room we have, but then I figure if she wants to watch TV, she can come in and watch it. I forget about it and go back to writing.
“Where’s you father?” Mom asks.
She starts to move toward the back door, and I say, “I think he’s clearing off the bench so we can make a new birdhouse.”
“That one in the maple is about to turn to dust. It could use a replacement.” She stands and drums her fingers on her thigh and then walks away.
I watch her walk away, and I realize that maybe I have more in common with Claire than I think. Maybe deep down, she doesn’t want to be here, either. Deep down, I do think I’m smarter than those twelve NO votes in humanities class last week. I did use Jeff Garnet as a disposable person—and while it was Kristina’s idea, I still went along with it, using his annoying leg-jiggling as an excuse. And really, who cares if the kid jiggles his leg?
Dinner is at three, and as tradition dictates, we all go upstairs and dress up a little. Dad puts on his cubicle blazer and a dress shirt with his jeans. Very Dude. I’m pretty sure he’s not stoned, too, which is great.
Mom puts on a work suit. With heels. Of course.
I wear a cool miniskirt I got last Christmas and my favorite turtleneck and a pair of black dress boots I never wear because they’re a little too small for me and they hurt my feet if I have to walk in them. I’m pretty sure the last time I wore them was last Thanksgiving.
While Mom carves the turkey, Dad dishes the carrots and corn and mashed potatoes and gravy into their respective bowls, and I fill the water glasses with ice cubes and water.
Then Ellis arrives at the table in sweats. I’m pretty sure they’re dirty sweats. She smells a bit like a hamper. She doesn’t offer to help, and just sits in her seat while the rest of us do stuff.
When the turkey is on the hot plate and covered in sufficient gravy, we sit in our chairs, and Mom starts the toast with her wineglass raised.
“To family,” she says. She tears up on the second syllable of family. Sniff. “To all the things we have to be thankful for.”
Dad clears his throat and raises his glass. “To a new start.” He nods to me.
I raise my water glass. “To love,” I say.
We all look to Ellis. Her hand isn’t anywhere near her glass. She’s just staring into space until it’s time to eat.
Mom says, “Ellis.”
She acts deaf.
Dad says, “Ellis.”
She sighs and raises her glass. “Here’s to bullshit,” she says.
And I can’t help it—I laugh so hard that I make her laugh, too. And that makes Dad and Mom laugh, too—in that order.
“To bullshit!” I repeat, and take a gulp of water.
“To bullshit!”
“To bullshit!”
“You smell,” I tell Ellis while we’re doing dishes.
“I tried,” she says.
“Dude, we have a lot of Thanksgivings in front of us. Why don’t we agree to make them atypical and cool instead of bullshit?”
“Are you going to wear those boots every year?”
“Probably. Why? Do they bug you?”
“You bug me.”
“Damn. You’re pissy.”
“I was kidding.”
“You need to warn a girl before you turn on her like that,” I say.
“I was kidding,” she says again while I’m passing her a really hot rinsed dish so she can dry it.
“No, you weren’t,” I say. She fumbles the dish and blows on her fingers.
We wash and dry in relative quiet for a while. I finally get to the soakers—the rack from the turkey and the bottom of the roaster—and I fill them with scalding-hot water and leave them to sit in the sink while I wipe down the kitchen table and the countertops.
“I’m gonna go get dressed,” Ellis says.
“Good.”
She starts toward the stairs.
“You know, you bug me, too. I’m just nice enough not to mention it,” I say.
“You just mentioned it.”
“So we’re even, then.”
I wipe down the stove top and replace the covers on the rings and then rinse my dishcloth and drape it over the drying rack.
Mom and Dad are bloating on the couch. I choose not to interrupt, and go to the quiet room and close the door. I dial Dee’s number.
She answers and says, “Hey! Happy Thanksgiving! Tell me everything!”
“How about I miss you? Like crazy?”
“That’s a good start. How are your mom and dad dealing?”
“It’s been okay, I guess,” I say.
“They didn’t beat you with canes or anything, did they?”
“Sorta.”
“What?”
“No, Dee. They didn’t beat me with any canes. Seriously.”
“You still love me?”
“More than a pilot loves air traffic control, baby. You still love me?”
“More than I love to nap after eating too much turkey.”
After a twenty-minute conversation, I check on my soaking dishes and find Mom attacking the roaster pan with a scrub pad.
“I was going to do that,” I say. “After they soaked.”
“It’s fine. You did all the rest. Go and relax.”
Dad is in the living room with his eyes closed, his pants unbuttoned, and the TV on. Ellis is sitting next to him, watching whatever is on TV. I decide I need to have a chat with my passengers because everything is different now, so I put on my coat and scarf and hat and grab the wool blanket off the back of the couch.
I hoist myself onto the picnic table and lie down, and as my eyes adjust to the bright four o’clock sky, I squint a little and look for planes.
They’re flying low, heading for the small regional airport. I’m pretty sure one of them is a twin-engine commuter. The other is a military plane. I concentrate on the commuter and send my love.
Everything ended up working out okay so far. Even with my parents. And maybe even with Ellis.
The nice thing about the passengers is they can’t say anything back. I can’t see any faces full of disappointment. I can’t hear them saying bad things about me. I can’t hear them call me the politically correct term for Indian giver… on Thanksgiving Day. Anyway, it’s not like I want my love back. I’m just slowing down business. They can have a little. I can say, “I love you!” when I see a plane. I probably always will. But they can’t have all my love.
