Thanksgiving with the Bentleys

Trigger : abortion

I often wonder if every family has an Aunt Berta. Someone who announces loudly the very thing everyone else wants to remain unsaid. Someone who sees all the secrets, creates the lies and rubs salt on the freshest of wounds.  

I'm watching Aunt Berta now as she swivels from the conversation she is having with Mama and Aunt Elizabeth to tell my brother John not to take that second plate of potatoes and ham and instead tries to nudge him in the direction of the roasted Brussel sprouts patting his pudge ever so gently as she pushes. John stares in my direction and I wince a bit. "You never do anything to defend me," John had spat into the empty space between us on the ten-hour drive to Grandma's house. The car was just too small and my trying to get Mama to buy us airplane tickets instead of driving had been a failed effort. We would miss the autumn leaves along the roadway, she said in between fluffing pillows and tucking sharp corners into the bed sheets. And so, we had driven the long drive, Father packing fishing rods onto the top of the sedan while mother packed the trunk with groceries that could survive the long drive and bumpy roads. They spoke in hushed tones from the front seats, the only other sound the occasional stone hitting the side of the car.  

“John,” I called to my little brother standing up walking towards his full frame which stood 6 inches taller than me. “Why don't we go outside.” I took his arm in mine and we headed to the front porch, door banging behind us as I hear Aunt Berta reminding us about our coats. John was ten years my junior and at 16, he looked a full grown man. He was the image of father which unfortunately also meant he appeared to be thinning on the top of his head and his middle was round. He will grow out of it and become lanky everyone has seemed to think when he was younger but now it was clear this was who he would be as he entered adulthood, a physical copy of our father.  

I looked behind me through the frosted window now and can just make out Mama and my aunts leaned in together smiling, giggling with Aunt Berta gesticulating hands above her head and by her sides moving wildly. I hug John tighter as the New England air flushes our cheeks. “Two more years and you can decide if you want to come to these anymore,” I say.

He sighs. “Decide if I want to spend Thanksgiving with my family. I just don't want to spend Thanksgiving with her.”  

We come here to Grandma because she won't go anywhere else. She won't travel with the ashes, and she won't have Thanksgiving without Grandpa.  

“We've spent over forty years having Thanksgiving together and we will continue," John and I say in unison mimicking Grandma and smile.  

For the last two years, the stainless-steel urn had claimed the head of the table perched on Grandpa's chair and during the Thanksgiving dinner. Grandma's hand could be seen resting atop it, occasionally running her fingers along the lettering and hearts on its side.  

We all showed up to Thanksgiving at Grandma’s, four generations of Bentleys. Family tradition dictated that everyone should be present. There was my mother and father, my brother and I, Aunt Berta, Aunt Elizabeth and her seven children and her grandchild. Her husband gets a pass for being deployed overseas two years running. 

Don't they usually give the soldiers holidays off, Berta had commented and I knew that Uncle Sam would prefer to take his chances with Iraq than spend the holidays with Aunt Berta.  

At the last family dinner Uncle Sam attended, Aunt Berta had commented that Aunt Elizabeth and her eldest daughter being pregnant together was such a blessing, but did Elizabeth think that number seven would be the end or would she try for an eighth.  

We all brought air beds and spread them wall to in the basement for the smaller children and wrestled to use the two bathrooms on the main floor.  Everyone brought groceries and home-made dishes and while the women cooked and chatted the men fished and hiked and watched football.

 We exchanged gifts at Thanksgiving. Grandpa had insisted. We only got together twice per year with everyone spread across the country and he wanted gift exchanges at Thanksgiving and Christmas.  

“I don't know why you came this year; I don’t know why we come to these dinners at all.” John says, and I can feel his head turn down searching for my face and I don't look up. The wind blows again, and I am tempted to go get jackets but another glance inside at Aunt Berta and I know my feet won't move.  

“That’s all gone now I say. I don't even think about that anymore.” I lie.

“But you loved him, didn't you?”

And to this, I don't have an answer because did I love him? I couldn't tell anymore who I loved beyond Mama and Father, and John. I didn't think I had any more love to share. “I liked having him around, “ I say and I can feel John's face wrinkle into confusion but he says nothing for a few minutes.  

“You brought him here,” he says, “that’s something.”

I had brought Brad to Thanksgiving to meet the family.  Six years of dating and we felt steady, sure, a solid rock.  He was from Georgia and his parents lived on the other side of town from our university. We were in our final year of graduate classes and making plans for the next phase of our life. It was easy to spend long weekends at his parents' house, to pop in for dinner after his soccer games. His mother loved her son and doted on him, but she had 4 other boys so her attention was stretched. She was never intrusive, always supportive.  

I started to dread him meeting my family. He tried every Thanksgiving to meet me in New England and I managed to keep him away for 6 years.  

Brad had come last year bringing his fishing pole and all his thickest jackets. “I wear T-shirts or no shirts all year in Atlanta” he said. “How you survive the north I will never understand.” We met him at the airport in Maine and I squeezed in the middle between him and John on the ride to grandmas’ house. I remember the smell of him, my head against his chest for that last stretch of drive as he looked around and chatted with Mama about the types of trees and colors of leaves and wildlife. His hand found mine and held me tight.

He had hiked and fished with Father and John, so bundled when he left, I teased he probably wore every layer he had brought with him. He probably had.

At dinner, he hung his head in prayer and spoke politely, seeming to engage everyone. It seemed Berta was going to be civil for once and my tension had slowly started to evaporate. When we sat around to exchange gifts the kids had squealed in delight for the toys he brought, and he had thoughtful gifts for all the adults. Berta inspected the box of the kitchenware set. "Thank you. It's just what I wanted." The sarcasm was thick enough to jab. She looked to Brad and said his real gift to the family would be to make an honest woman out of her niece and stop using her niece as the trial run for the real thing.

I inhaled sharply and stared at her before taking Brad's hand and walking swiftly to the basement. At the top of the basement stairs, I stopped and apologized to him. “She may be right,” he said.

“What?”

“Well, it’s been 6 years and I haven’t asked.”

“I haven’t been waiting”

“You haven’t.” he said, eyeing me curiously.

“Brad, I love you and I don’t care if we never get married.”

“I often wonder about ..”

“We don’t need to talk about that right now.” I cut him off.

“Kelly, you never talk about it.”

“Well because it’s done and there’s nothing to discuss.” He sighed, sat on the top step and patted the space beside him for me to sit as well.

“Kelly, I asked your father today for your hand.”

I turned quickly to face him, “you did what? Why?”

“Because I want to make an honest woman out of you.” He smiled at the corner of his mouth at this.

“Brad.”

“Kelly before you say it, listen. I wanted that baby. I wish you had asked me before you..” The silence grew thick then he ventured “Well I wish you had asked. I want to be a father.”

“And I don’t want children, Brad.”

“I always thought you weren’t serious Kelly, what woman doesn’t want children.”

“We don’t live in the 1940’s, Brad.”

He said nothing then and for the rest of the trip he smiled and was amiable and I knew it was over between us. I could feel our solid rock crumbling with the earthquakes beneath.

I had moved back in with my parents after graduation and started working at a local newspaper, settling back into small town life. 

Maybe I did love Brad. He was now engaged to a tall supermodel thin blonde whose abdomen bulged with their child; our trial run had ended.

“John, I had an abortion three years ago.” I feel his hands tighten around mine.

“We all know Kelly,” he says.

“You all know about.. the pregnancy? How?”

“How do you think? Aunt Berta. I’m not sure how she knew. When you took Brad away last year, she couldn’t control herself. She kept going on about the baby and the loss and weddings.”

“No-one said anything to me.”

“You guys didn’t come back to dinner and what were we supposed to say Kelly. Aunt Berta thought that you should get married and try again for another baby, Well I guess she thought you lost the baby, not that you had an abortion, but she knew about the pregnancy. Why do we come to these dinners Kelly?"

“We won’t come next year.” I say leaning closer into the girth of my little brother. " We'll send our gifts with Mama."