And in that second every last bit of attention is diverted to Hattie. I sigh as quietly as I can, the weight of being the center of attention easing from my chest. I am so thankful for her never-failing ability to steal the spotlight.
Everyone erupts into coos and squeals—even Bart grunts his approval. Dad circles the table and kisses Hattie’s forehead. His eyes are full of tears that he never allows himself to shed. “My girls,” he says. But he’s not talking about Hattie and me. This time his girls are Hattie and his future granddaughter. I’m happy for my sister. I am. But for a moment, I want to freeze us all in time and stop the world from changing.
After lots of hugs and kisses and a few tears, my dad uses Agnes’s electric knife to cut the turkey, and we all pass around an endless supply of side dishes and fixings. There’s none of that awkward politeness. And I guess it’s because we’re family. This odd little group of people—my favorite people in the world—makes up my family.
After dinner, Freddie and I volunteer to do the dishes, and we hear no protest from Saul or Hattie. As I’m tying Agnes’s apron around my waist, I notice that Freddie’s khaki pants are a smidge too short, but his butt still looks great. And I tell him so.
“Hey,” I say, and smack my hand against his backside loudly. “Those pants and your ass.” I whistle, channeling Hattie.
I love asses. Everyone’s got their thing, and mine is butts. I wish I could be classy and say I love hands or eyes or lips. But it’s asses, and for as much as I love a nice lady ass, I can appreciate a good guy ass, too.
“Well, you don’t look so rough yourself,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, and give a twirl in my thrifted sunflower baby-doll dress. It actually looks like the kind of thing my mom might have worn when we were little.
Freddie scrubs while I load the dishwasher.
“What’s that noise?” He tilts his head and pauses.
I don’t have to check to know. “Hattie. She’s started snoring.” Which has made sleeping in my own room even more difficult than it was before. Her chain-saw-like snores drown out the football game on TV.
After we finish the dishes, we sit at the kitchen table, still in our aprons, sharing a hot toddy we convinced Bart to make for us. All around us are pies and cookies and a bowl of leftover Halloween candy that Agnes put out with the desserts in the hope of getting rid of it before Christmas.
I steal a notebook from Agnes’s junk drawer and write outMASHat the top of the page.
“MASH?” asks Freddie.
“You’ve never played MASH?”
He shakes his head.
“Well, I’m about to pop your cherry.”
“What does MASH stand for?”
“Mansion, apartment, shack, house. Okay, now give me two girls’ names.”
“People I know?”
“Doesn’t matter. People you know. Celebrities. Whatever.”
“Ruth,” he says. “And you.”
“And now I add two,” I explain. “Viv.”
“Shit. Come on, Ramona. Push the knife in a little deeper.”
“Hey,” I say, “we gotta have some real-life options. I’ll throw in Beyoncé to balance it all out.”
“Okay, I guess that’s fair.”
“Dream big, right?” I grin and write down each name. “Okay, pick two cars.”
“Easy. A Jeep Wrangler like Saul’s. Makes me feel like I’m in Jurassic Park,” he explains. “And a 1948 Chevy pickup. Like Bart’s.”
I nod as I write them down. “And I choose a Winnebago and a Mary Kay pink Lincoln town car.”
“Touché.”
