The Turkey's Done

The turkey was basted. It looked moister than usual. That was a real achievement for the Conor Family. Dry turkey was as much of a tradition as family fights were. Everyone served up the sweet potato pie and then they fell into disgruntlement with one another. There were six members of the family that attended dinner at the Conor’s family homestead each and every year. They could grow vegetables quicker than most people can grow the hair on their heads, but the turkey was always bone dry, and Aunt Clarissa would always be first to comment on it. She’d put in her fifty cents and everyone would start squabbling over it. Her brother Ryan couldn’t stand her. It was the only time in the year they bothered to get together. None of them were big on Christmas, but they were fiercely patriotic, even if the foundations of the celebration were somewhat disreputable.

Gary would always arrive late carrying a bottle of fizz. He’d fill his own glass first and then start ranting about the local reservation and all the Native Americans that had lost their lives in exchange for this star-spangled celebration. The rest of the family couldn’t stand his pronouncements. It was like he was holding up a magnifying mirror that allowed them to see the full effect of their own imperfections in it. He wasn’t there that year. He’d decided to boycott it, to take a stand, he said, much to the relief of the rest of the family. They expected peace to reign at their family feast, despite all prevailing evidence to the contrary.

Lacy arrived first. She was the daughter of the Conor couple that hosted the meal every year. She felt trepidatious as she made her way up the long driveway. The house sat back very far from the main road, like it was in a little world of its own. It was one that granted them privacy to have their disputes without any of the neighbours ever noticing anything other than the manicured image the family wanted to put across. Lacy was seething with resentment before she even pressed the buzzer at the door. She was swept in with a dramatic welcome – one that would have been fitting in any theatrical performance. She was hugged with enthusiasm by her parents. Ryan and Clarissa were yet to arrive, and she wished she wasn’t the first to walk in. She felt the pressure being piled onto her before she even opened her mouth. But she’d resolved to bite her tongue – whatever was said, whomever said it. It was a time for family and loving agreement.

She’d decided to keep a low profile after the previous year whenever the worst family argument had erupted at the dinner table. Tempers had gone flying, like angry birds of prey picking over each other and the Thanksgiving leftovers. It wouldn’t happen this year. They’d all have a “nice” time. Lacy would make sure of it, even if no one else did. She’d keep her mouth zipped and wouldn’t rise to the bait. At least Gary wasn’t there, she thought. That removed the main character that fanned the flames of the familial arguments.

They gathered around the table, one by one. The starter was ready: pumpkin soup, but it was getting cold because Ryan was running late. He said there was heavy traffic, but she had come from the same direction he had and there had been none on her way there. “Say nothing,” she reminded herself. She watched her bowl of soup, as the last of the steam dispersed and she could see it coming to a chill in front of her.

Clarissa was monopolising the conversation as always, doing her best to take centre stage. Lacy imagined her as a centrepiece on the table, stuffed like the turkey, and the thought of it brought a smile to her face.

“What are you smirking about, Darling?” asked Clarissa.

Their parents looked at them warily, jumping from one face to the other, waiting for the first eruption, but no, Lacy wouldn’t cause it this year. She was determined to be the peacemaker. She’d influence the others, hopefully. It would mark the first peaceful Thanksgiving the family had ever shared.

Ryan came in, making effusive apology for his tardiness. Her mother told him not to worry; they were happy to wait for him. There she was, making it all ok for everyone – making people’s selfish behaviour ok, even when it was anything but. Lacy could feel a sense of injustice rising inside her, but she flattened it down again and tried to just feel grateful that they could start eating.

Her soup was lukewarm, but she dipped her bread in it and tried to think of something else. Clarissa passed comment on the temperature of the soup, but Lacy quickly counteracted the comment by stating just how perfect the spiced levels in it were. Her mother perked up and her father complimented Ryan on his Thanksgiving sweater. It had a happy turkey on it – one that was surely happier than the one roasting in the oven.

After the starter passed without major incident, the main course came in. The Conor’s had the whole meal coordinated after decades of practice. It mightn’t have been perfect, but it was ready to eat. Clarissa began her usual habit of verballing tearing apart the turkey. Lacy continued to bite her tongue, reminding herself how lucky she was to have Thanksgiving served to her every year as an adult. The meal was minimal effort for her after a busy season in work that demanded so much from her every minute of every shift.

Ryan rose to Clarissa’s comments on the poultry, shouting her down at the table. Lacy didn’t mind; she was used to this performance; it was the same thing annually. It was nothing new or surprising. She kept her cool. She was good at that, she decided, and she wondered why she’d made Thanksgiving into such a big deal in her head before she’d arrived. It was a piece of cake – or rather, a piece of pumpkin pie. And that was when Gary called in for a surprise visit, carrying his anti-Thanksgiving paraphernalia. He was proud of himself, for doing what was right, he said; for highlighting what needed to be addressed. Each to their own, Lacy thought, until he set the American flag alight in the garden and started a Thanksgiving bonfire there. Some things, it turns out, you can’t bite your tongue about. Some traditions never end and some families can never reach a ceasefire.