Thanksgiving was Richard’s favorite holiday. He liked the story: the cowboys devoured Indian corn, the Indians noshed on Pilgrim biscuits, and everyone made a friend. Eat another man’s food and suddenly you respect him a little more. A lifetime in the restaurant business, and Richard knew this to be a fact.
It was Richard’s favorite holiday because his children respected it ashisholiday. No matter what was happening at the homes ofthe son-in-laws’ families, his girls understood they and their grandchildren were required to come home for Thanksgiving. Nothing brought him more joy than the sight of his grandkids: Stacy and Emily, Frank and Amanda, Dennis and Patrick.
At fifty-eight, Richard found life at home with Foon Wah was a monotonous cycle through the same tired rituals they’d invented decades earlier. The prior year he’d injured his back at Wo Hop and retired on SSI, and so, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to support the family. His children were old enough to take care of themselves, and he’d settled with the loan shark and paid off the East Flatbush mortgage. He had left a lot of things to the past, though sometimes he had to sit in front of the TV for hours to keep himself from vomiting up the memories.
Yet there was something strangely off about this Thanksgiving. Foon Wah had been on edge all week. He’d assumed she was anxious about the cooking, but on Thursday when his daughters’ families arrived, his girls behaved strangely, too, disappearing together into the master bedroom and closing the door. When he barged in and asked why they had hijacked his room, they exchanged glances. “Uh… planning Christmas presents, Daddy. Don’t come in.”
He hoped it was some womanly matter best resolved by women. Returning to his recliner in the living room, Richard let Frank and Emily scramble up his legs, and he bounced them up and down like he was one of those coin-operated horses in Sunset Park. Next, he took Amanda in his arms, blew air into her belly, and let her soar the sky above his head.
His daughters’ husbands plopped down on the couch to watch the football game. He had acquired three impressive sons: a police officer, a bank manager, and a pharmacist. With these family-oriented, well-paid jook seing in his house, he could almost put out of mind the fact that his own son was late.
His girls returned from the bedroom, laughing and seeming at ease. Julie helped Foon Wah carve the turkey, Jackie gave Emily apiggyback ride, and Jennifer opened the window so they wouldn’t melt from the oven heat.
“Jackie, did you hear Jason is coming with his girlfriend?” asked Jennifer.
When Richard heard her, all sounds fell away: the football game, the children’s squeals, the rumble in his belly—everything hushed, like he’d turned the volume low.
“What girlfriend?” he said, but the girls didn’t seem to hear him.
“Yeah. They should be here soon,” Jackie said.
“Do you know what her name is?” asked Julie.
“I think Rachel?”
“Rachel,” repeated Richard.
“Rabinovich,” Jennifer added.
“Rachel Rabinovich!” Richard gasped. “That’s a Jewish name.”
“I think she’s bringing rainbow cookies.”
“Jason’s got a Jewish girlfriend!” he exclaimed, not knowing whether to laugh or to scoff.
“They’re serious,” said Jennifer. “They’re living together.”
“They’re engaged,” added Jackie.
All three of his daughters avoided his eyes.
Amanda, Frank, and Emily disbanded, bored because their grandfather had stopped bouncing. Sammy, the banker son-in-law, handed Richard an an tat and told him to eat it. Reflexively, he lifted the crust to his mouth. The kids attacked Uncle Johnny with the couch pillows; their shrieks filled the silence.
They had known. They had all known and had kept the news from him.
“That son of a bitch.”
“Daddy, the kids.”
“Son of a bitch!” He pushed back the footrest, rose to his feet, checked his pockets for a cigarette, and crossed the room in the direction of the porch.
“This is Jason, Daddy,” said Jackie, touching his elbow. “You knowJason. You’ll never change his mind. And if you say no, you’ll never see him again.”
Richard grabbed his coat and pushed open the porch door, letting it rattle behind him. He leaned on the railing and smoked, as cowboys or as country peasants do, and a strange blend of sweet and bitter filled his mouth: tobacco mixed with the an tat’s custard. He squinted down the street at the driveways crammed with the cars of visiting families. Dance music played from a stereo. These Haitians understood they had a day off from work, but who knows how many could cook the traditional Thanksgiving foods, Richard thought. Most likely they were stewing goat and red snapper like usual.
Though, he couldn’t deny it: the street smelled pretty good.
Jackie was right, of course. Jason did not care what he thought. And that had always been what was wrong with his son: not a whit of respect for what his parents felt or had to say. Made a disgrace of them, went around in flip-flops looking like a goddamn queer. No serious job, spent all his time reading poems. What was he supposed to tell people, his only son was marrying a bak gui?
