Chapter 9 - The Sweetness of the Feast
One year later.
The kitchen of our brick bungalow on the east side was eighty degrees, smelling of caramelized onions, sage, roasting butter, and the sweet, dark tang of reduced port wine.
It was two o'clock on Thanksgiving afternoon.
Outside, a light, dry snow was dusting the cedar fence in our backyard, while inside, the house was loud with the chaotic, beautiful roar of real life.
Luke was on the living room rug with Theo, building an elaborate wooden crane that used two pulleys and a spool of dental floss to lift small plastic cows into the air. Sarah and her husband were setting the long oak table we’d bought from an antique market in September, laying out mismatched linen napkins and candles that smelled like cinnamon.
My mother sat in the armchair by the window, her denim apron replaced by a soft green wool sweater, reading a picture book to Sarah’s youngest daughter while holding a glass of dry ginger ale.
The back door clicked open.
Walter stepped into the mudroom, stomping the snow from his heavy boots onto the sisal mat.
He didn't have his wife with him. Brenda had spent the holiday in Oakville with Renee, having dinner at a private club that required jackets and served six-course tasting menus where nobody had to carve anything.
Walter had driven forty minutes across the city in his old truck, his shearling coat buttoned to his chin, holding an eight-quart enamel stockpot wrapped in two kitchen towels.
"The turkey stock," Walter announced, setting the heavy pot on the stove with a satisfying, cast-iron clatter. "Simmered twelve hours with leeks and black peppercorn. Better than last year."
Graham came out of the pantry, wearing an apron that Theo had painted with green handprints at preschool, and reached out his hand to his father.
Walter didn't take his hand.
The seventy-year-old man stepped forward, wrapped his thick, flannel-clad arms around his son’s neck, and pulled him into a rough, silent bear hug that lasted five long seconds. When he pulled back, Walter’s eyes were watery, but his mouth was curved into an easy, peaceful grin.
"Good to see you, son," Walter muttered.
"Good to see you, Dad," Graham said, his voice thick. "Go sit down. Theo's been waiting to show you his crane."
I stood by the oven, wearing my oven mitts, checking the digital thermometer in the center of the twenty-two-pound heritage bird resting on the middle rack.
One hundred and sixty-five degrees.
The skin was mahogany, blistered with dried herbs, crackling softly as the hot air rushed out into the room.
I pulled the roasting pan from the oven, using both hands, my shoulders steady, my back straight, carrying the weight easily across the four feet of linoleum to the butcher block island.
Graham walked over, picked up the carving knife, and looked down at the bird.
He looked at the steam rising toward the pendant lights, then looked up at me across the island. The lines around his eyes were soft now; the tightness that used to live in his jaw had completely dissolved over twelve months of honest work, clear boundaries, and Sunday afternoons spent without an audience.
"How's it look, Margo?" he asked, his voice low, private, and filled with an unshakeable, profound reverence.
I looked at the turkey.
May you like
I looked at my mother laughing by the window, at Walter sitting on the floor with his grandson, at my brother arguing about hockey over the mashed potatoes, and at the man who had learned how to stand between his past and his future.
"It looks like enough, Graham," I smiled, handing him the carving fork. "It looks like more than enough."
