Golden Rule

The moment Mr. Walker said,”amen,” everyone at the narrow dining table fell into a quiet rhythm. Cut. Bite. Drink.

“Jenny, will you pass the salt?”

Cut. Bite. Drink.

“Little hot in here.”

Cut. Bite. Drink.

“Excuse me.”

Cut. Bite. Stab.

“Turkey’s dry.” Mrs. Walker’s fork scraped her plate as Jenny took a long swig of water. I leaned over to Jacob.

“Was it a fight,” I whispered.

“War,” he answered, then swallowed a bite of dressing. I fumbled with the potatoes on my plate and kept my eyes low.

 Jacob had warned me of the hostility in his family that now hung over the dinner table. He didn’t mention what the catalyst for the ill feelings were, only that it happened at last year’s Thanksgiving. 

This mystery turned a family gathering into my riddle for the afternoon. Seen as I couldn’t slip into a hall bathroom for an hour with my puzzle book, I had to entertain myself with hunting the elephant in the room.

“So how about that game,” Mr. Walker said. He was one of two neutral parties, but the only one making any effort to veer from hostility. 

“What about it,” Randy said chomping on turkey. The second neutral party did little but eat and slurp over the course of the meal. When he did speak, his meaningless words proved just as provocative as those intentionally so.  

”Hardly a game to it,” Randy said,”They didn’t play a lick! Had their heads too far up their...”

“Randall,” Grandma Jo snapped. Her skinny penciled eyebrows and knit shawl led the brigade for the first team. Along with her was her youngest daughter, Jenny, and Gage, Jenny’s teenage son with brown bangs that hung out from a beanie. He sat slumped back in his chair with a colorful pin fastened to his collar and dark liner under his eyes.

Opposite from them sat team 2, which I now belonged to. My husband’s mom, Leigh Anne Walker, sat with me and Jacob. Most of the sound during the meal came from her charmed bangles clattering against her plate as she cut turkey or scratched her fork across the dish to keep from lashing out.

With such a cast of characters as these, a political squabble was my first guess as to what the catastrophe was. However, Randy’s apparent neutrality combined with Gage’s general presence debunked this theory. Had there been a squabble between the red and blue, I imagined Randy would be far from impartial. 

Religion, then? That didn’t fit either. The entirety of the family bled Southern Baptist. Gage was the only exception, but he and Grandma Jo sat as allies, and it seemed highly unlikely they agreed on spiritual matters.

“Do you not like the ham?” Jacob nudged me and I looked at Grandma Jo, who was awaiting my answer.

“Sorry?” She rolled her eyes.

“I asked if the ham was to your liking?” I didn’t realize that everyone had gotten both ham and turkey until Grandma Jo pointed out my lack of the former.

“Oh, I can’t eat ham,” I said. Grandma Jo scoffed.

“Rebecca’s Jewish, Grandma,” Jacob said. For some reason, he was expecting an intrigued response. He got eyes of disdain. 

“The ham’s wonderful, Mom,” Jenny said. She pushed her compliment off of her tongue and across the table at me. It’s amazing how someone can both compliment the person next to them while also telling someone that they’re going to hell. Fascinating.

“Gage, would you like to tell everyone how you did on the standardized test,” Jenny said. She tenderly cut her meat while tipping her nose up at her son. 

“Oh, I, uh, got top twenty in my school.” Mr. Walker’s face lit up. Finally, a topic without controversy.

“Hey, ain’t that something!”

“Congratulations, Gage Marshall,” Grandma Jo said,”you know you get the English aptitude from me.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t get it from Jenny,” Mrs. Walker mumbled through a mouth full of peas. This time, Jenny’s fork scarred the plate.

“And just what makes you say that? I won the third grade spelling bee!” Mrs. Walker picked up her glass, unphased by Jenny’s remark.

“Well, you obviously didn’t win the geography bee,” Mrs. Walker said. All motion stopped. Jacob gripped my hand and silence fell over the table. Jenny wet her lips.

“What did you say?” Mrs. Walker dabbed her mouth with her napkin then set it in her lap.

“I said, you didn’t have a prayer at the geography bee, Jenny. And if I may be frank, Gage wouldn’t either.” Jenny’s mouth popped open and Grandma Jo repositioned her shawl with firm hands. Jacob whispered in my ear.

“Brace yourself.” I looked to him, but found no hope.

“So how about that game,” Mr. Walker said. His olive branch opportunity went unnoticed. 

“Gage could do far better than you ever would in a geography bee, Leigh Anne,” Jenny said. 

“He thought a border was a river, Jen.”

“It was a border!” Aggression snapped Grandma Jo’s voice. The shawl was off.

“Anyone could tell,” Jenny said. Mrs. Walker leaned in.

“Test me, you..”

“Leigh Anne,” Mr. Walker said. He was now standing over the table.

“Frank,” Mrs. Walker said,”I think we should settle things the way they began.” Mr. Walker’s face completely unwound.

“Leigh Anne...”

“Frank,” Mrs. Walker snapped,”bring up the box.”

“Leigh Anne, I really don’t think...”

“The box, Frank,” she demanded while staring right at Jenny.

“Do it, Frank,” Jenny said. Mr. Walker finally relented and left the table.

“Where is he...” I began. Jacob hushed me.

“Just be ready,” he responded. For a moment, my mind scrambled for every possible guess at what box could possibly be coming up the stairs. I finally forfeited my puzzle and awaited my answer. I stared at Jacob until his father returned with a box, and everything made sense. The words, the hatred, and, most of all, the war.

 Mr. Walker set a tattered cardboard box down in the center of the table. The box was opened, and we were sucked into a five hour whirlwind of slander and defeat. Jenny and Leigh Anne never spoke again. Mr. Walker lost his neutrality. I was divorced the next spring.

 Let this be a woeful tale of warning. At holiday feasts, you should not discuss politics, you should not speak of religion, but you never play Risk.