Short Stories from Wing's Authors.

A Family Affair

by

Martha A. Gardiner

Thanksgiving began to unravel on Labor Day. Stephanie’s mother broke her hip, ending their plan for the long trip East to celebrate Steph and Pete’s first Thanksgiving.

“It’s all right,” Steph told her mother on the phone. “We’ll manage.”

But, it wasn’t all right. Visions of them all gathering in Winnetka filled her head. The entire family clustered around the laden table, the newest baby in a highchair, Mother’s face flushed from the heat of the kitchen… And Dad would say, “Thank God we’re all still together.” Only they wouldn’t all be together. She, Stephanie, would be a thousand miles away.

Hearing Pete’s key in the lock propelled her into the kitchen. What could she throw together for dinner? Cooking was not Stephanie’s strong point. Pete dumped his briefcase on the counter and reached for her. “What do you plan to feed me, woman?” he asked with a smile.

“Soup.” She squirmed at his tickling of her neck. “Mama’s soup.”

When they’d last been home, Mama had sent back jars of home-canned soup, and dark pungent apple butter.

“Great,” he said. “I love your mother’s soup.”

Later Pete dried the dishes as Steph told him about the change of plans for Thanksgiving. “It will be okay, won’t it?” she finished bravely.

“Sure.” He noted the wobble of Steph’s chin he wondered aloud if they could make it home for Thanksgiving dinner by driving all night Wednesday. But, they’d have to start back again in twenty-four hours. Would the trip be worth it?

Then one morning, Steph awakened with her stomach lurching in a way that sent in her dashing for the bathroom. It was the same the next morning, and the next. And then it was all day, every day. The doctor recommended dry crackers, but nothing worked. She took a leave of absence from work.

While delighted about the baby, they finally had to admit there was no way they could make the marathon trip to the Midwest. Pete held Steph while she cried in disappointment.

It was Pete’s suggestion to ask his boss to dinner. “He’s an old man, from Latvia, and lonely since his wife died.” Mrs. Rosa had died barely a year ago and Mr. Rosa was truly all alone.

“Of course, bring him.” Steph made plans to buy a frozen turkey roll so that if she were desperately sick on Thanksgiving morning, she could simply tuck it into the oven and bake it.

Thank goodness she’d had the foresight. Between waves of nausea she prepared sweet potatoes and vegetables for cooking, and thawed the foil wrapped turkey roll and a pumpkin pie. At the proper time, she placed the turkey roll into the oven.

Sympathetically, Pete put his arms around her. “You go lie down. I’ll clean up the kitchen.”

She lay on her bed trying not to think about the family gathering at home. Next year, she vowed, her baby would be the one in the antique highchair.

When Pete called to her that Mr. Rosa was coming up the front steps, there was an underlying tone in his voice that sat her up in bed in a hurry.

“You’d better come and look at the turkey,” he said from the door, and disappeared.

Stephanie hurried to the kitchen.

Pete greeted Mr. Rosa, took his coat, and stuck his head around the door. “You have to come and say hello,” he whispered urgently.

Steph stood frozen as solidly as the “turkey” had been. It lay before her on its shiny bed of foil looking suspiciously like the roll of bread she had baked a month ago, frozen, and forgotten. She yanked open the freezer door, frantically shoved packages around, and finally came up with a roll that looked much like the one on the counter. This was the turkey, painstakingly marked in her own hand on the freezer tape.

Pete’s head appeared at the door. “Honey, you have to come and say hello to the man.” And then with a look of query, “What happened to the turkey?”

“The turkey is bread!” she said a little wildly.

“Well…but Mr. Rosa’s asked for you twice.”

Casting a despairing glance around the kitchen, Stephanie went to greet Mr. Rosa.

She accepted the bottle of Cherry Kiafa wine he brought, thanked him politely, and went back into the kitchen to stand over the fat roll of homemade bread.

Pete hurried in. “Do we have anything else we can feed him?”

“Nothing that isn’t frozen solid.” She wrung her hands.

From the door came a heavily accented voice. “Excuse me. In the home country it was always a celebration of thanksgiving when the family gathered at the table.” He gave a short, jerky bow. “And I am grateful that you include me in your family for this one day. Could I, perhaps, pour a dollop of wine for you?”

Stephanie looked doubtful. “My stomach….”

Mr. Rosa reached for the bottle and glasses. “This I know about. My Magda, when she was carrying, like you, was never so beautiful. But always this running stomach! Ach! The Cherry Kiafa helped.” He poured as he spoke. “Try. Please.”

Standing in the kitchen, with the loaf of bread between them, Mr. Rosa smiled. His eyes peered out from behind a hundred wrinkles and for a minute he looked something like Dad about to ask the blessing.

Home. Mother. Soup. Of course, her mother’s jars of homemade soup! Homemade soup, homemade bread and applebutter, and Mr. Rosa’s bottle of wine. It would do. It would do just fine. After all, Mr. Rosa wasn’t expecting turkey and all the trimmings.

And, Steph remembered, her mother always said every family was different. Families were made up of all sorts of odds and ends, bits and pieces. And next year, she and Pete would add a new member to the group.

Pete put his arm around Steph and aimed a kiss at her ear. “To beginnings.” They toasted the holiday.

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