Cuts

My mother sliced the turkey’s breast with the Ginsu knife that my father bought for her last Christmas. A Ginsu knife can cut through a tin can like butter. Last year, on that Christmas morning, right after she ripped open the wrapping paper and saw what Dad had given her, she said, “Oh, Phil, you must trust me!” Dad had a good laugh. Mom sipped her Bloody Mary and gave my dad a look, one that I can only describe as “Ick.” 

While carving the turkey, my mother paused and took a sip of wine. My father sat at then end of the table, his fingers tapping out some kind of marching rhythm, except he had poor rhythm. It was kind of embarrassing when he listened to Led Zeppelin in his Honda. He was probably the worst air drummer in the world. He thought he was Bonzo, but he looked like he was having a seizure.

“Alice, would you pass the cranberry sauce?” Dad said. “Alice.”

My older sister continued to look at her Snapchat feed. I’m pretty sure she heard him, but sometimes it was hard to tell. 

My father got up from his seat, walked halfway around the table, and slopped some cranberry sauce on his salad plate. My mother had always prepared a special cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving dinner. But this year, she just kind of plopped it out of the can. She didn’t even bother to break it up with a spoon or stir it a little. The sauce sat as an upright gelatinous cylinder and Dad took a third of it. 

“Would you like some Turkey, Sam?” my mother asked me. 

I nodded, put my plate out, and received two Ginsu sliced cuts of turkey. She left a little skin on the edges, just as I liked it. 

“Phil?” Mother said.

Dad just looked out the window, savoring his cranberry sauce, drumming his fingers on the table. My Mom didn’t even ask Alice if she wanted anything to eat. 

“OK, dig in,” mother said. She took another sip of wine. 

The doorbell rang.

My father darted from the dining room, galumphed through the hallway, and opened the door. My mother began to slice the turkey faster, tearing through flesh and bone. 

The door let out a creak. A waft of cool air entered the house, swirled into the dining room, and was gone. Jessica was at the door. Jessica worked with my dad. They sold houses together. Everyone saw her on the big signs around town. Her billboards didn’t make any sense, though. The most recent one had her dressed in a FILA track suit with her arms crossed and read, SHE WON’T BE MESSIN’ YA, JUST CALL JESSICA! My dad did was well in commissions as she did. She sold more houses though. 

In the front hallway, Jessica and my dad were arguing about something, but I couldn’t hear what. They bickered over everything. Last summer, at our Labor Day cookout, she and my dad had a knock down drag out argument over whether hamburgers were better than hotdogs. My mom had already passed out by then. Dad and Jessica were mildly entertaining that day; that is, if you like the taste of bullshit.

I heard dad’s slippers shuffle along the floor. Jessica’s high heel shoes clicked on the hardwood of the hallway. 

“Sam, Alice, you know Jessica?” Dad asked. Alice texted somebody. I gave Jessica an up-nod. 

My dad was a pudgy five-foot-seven. Jessica was a slender five-foot-ten. In her four inch heels, she towered above my father. Her strawberry blonde hair lay perfectly straight around her head. 

“Really, Phil!” Mom said. “Really! On Thanksgiving!” Mom’s hair was naturally curly. When she got in a snit, her hair seemed to wind all the tighter. 

My mother got up from the table, stormed into the kitchen, and poured herself another glass of wine. By the sound of it, much of the wine splashed outside the glass, onto the counter, and onto the floor. She returned and sat in a huff. 

I knew why Jessica was here, at least I thought so. Alice probably thought she knew, too, but she didn’t seem to give a shit. 

Dad went on a few unannounced business trips back in March. Of course he went with Jessica. He was always with Jessica. They went on a few other trips in April, May, and July. He missed our family vacation. Mom and Alice missed it too, but for different reasons. I mean, they were there and all, but mom was passed out on the beach the whole time and Alice live tweeted the entire vacay. 

Dad opened his mouth a bit, but then paused. Jessica pushed a finger of hair behind her ear. 

“Oh, for God sakes, Phil!” Mom said. 

“Sam, Alice . . . Alice.”

Alice had switched over to Instagram. 

“Well, your mother and I, well, we . . .”

“Dad, I know,” I said. 

Jessica squinted her eyes at me. “Know? How could you know? Phil, how could he possibly know?” Jessica said, talking faster and louder, not hiding her frustration.

Phil turned his head to the side and raised his hands chest high. It was his own way of saying, “everybody hold on a sec.”

“The truth is, son . . . well.”

Jessica bit her lip and cracked a smile. 

“The truth is . . . We’re going to Switzerland!” Dad said.

Mom rolled her eyes and downed her glass of wine. She got up and got another. 

“Over the past year, Jessica and I have been building quite a network. We sold the leads. We’re rich! So, to celebrate, Jess and I are taking the whole family to Switzerland for Christmas!”

Alice shrugged. 

I sat and stared at Dad and Jessica, who were laughing and enjoying the fact that their big secret was out of the bag. My mom should have had returned to the table by now. When I peaked over Alice, who was now on Facebook, and into the kitchen, I saw that Mom had her head down on the kitchen table. At first I thought she was sobbing, but then I could see that she had passed out.

“Well, Sam, what do you think?” Jessica said.

What did I think? What was I supposed to think? That he and Jessica were sleeping together? That mom had a drinking problem? Those would be logical thoughts. But Switzerland? Why Switzerland? This evening fell short a few jacks. And so the only thing I could think of to say was, “Can we go skiing?” 

No one answered me. Dad and Jess just kind of laughed and looked at each other longingly, in a way that I could only describe as “Ick.”

I lost my appetite. I took my empty plate to the kitchen and threw it in the sink. The knife rack was missing a Ginsu. Of course, the knife was on the table. I retuned the Ginsu to its rack. You don’t want to leave something like that lying around. Someone could get hurt. 

We never went skiing. A week after Thanksgiving, Alice found Mom passed out in the shower with a bottle of wine. Alice rushed her to the hospital and texted me in a frenzy as she drove. 

We spent that Christmas visiting my mom in rehab. That morning, after we exchanged presents, she told us that she and Dad we’re getting a divorce. We had to take the Nora Roberts book I got for her home with us. She could only read recovery literature while in rehab. 

That night it began to snow. I watched the snow fall from our kitchen window. It reminded me of the powdered sugar my mom used to shake over Christmas cookies. I went to the fridge and grabbed a pack of break-and-bake cookies. I put the package of raw cookie dough on the counter and motioned to grab the Ginsu. It was gone. 

I never saw my father again.