Jennifer Greene - Cupid’s Confederates

The night was frigidly cold. She could not remember ever feeling a wind quite like this one, so unforgiving, so fierce and icy and eerily silent.

Thanksgiving dawned with four inches of crystal-white snow on the ground. At six in the morning, dressed in a long flannel robe, Bett awkwardly pulled the twenty-pound turkey from the refrigerator. The unwieldy bird was certainly more than big enough to feed six. Two weeks before, she and Zach had mentioned to Elizabeth that they always took in lonely strays from the neighborhood on the holiday. That they’d found three unattached men in the age bracket of forty-five to sixty was purely accidental, they’d let Elizabeth believe. But then, two weeks ago, Bett and Zach had been confederates in the gentle conspiracy of finding someone for her mother to love.

Who could have guessed they’d risk losing their own love in the process?

Humming “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” Bett burrowed into the back of the pantry for the huge roasting pan she only used twice a year. For five long days, up until now, she’d been humming funeral dirges instead. For five very stupid days, she’d let anger hum between herself and her husband, a silent song. Two of those days she’d still been furiously angry with Zach. Two more days had been wasted being furiously angry with herself. The one productive day out of the five was yesterday, when with far too painful clarity Bett had tried to put her emotional house in order.

That was done, and battle hymns were now appropriate. It seemed she had a few bridges to mend, none of them small ones. Both careful and immediate mending was called for, and that was not going to be easy, when this Thanksgiving had already been set up as yet another day revolving around her mother. Which was not, Bett was finally beginning to understand, her mother’s fault, but her own. The last thing she and Zach needed was yet another day interrupted by strangers, which was why she was humming. Humor was armor against fear-fear that her husband was out of both patience and compassion-and Bett had a great deal to put right and now, chaotic day or no.

With a cup of steaming coffee on one side and the turkey on the other, she started slicing tiny slips of mushrooms and celery for the dressing. She’d measured a cupful of each when she heard the quiet footstep in the doorway. Zach.

“Morning,” she said brightly, suddenly so busy she could barely think. Where exactly was it that she kept the mugs, the coffee, the spoons…a freshly brewed cup was set in front of him almost before he’d slid into the chair.

“Morning,” he echoed back.

Her nervous system registered a little chill emanating from him, a little startled stare at her exuberance, and about five miles of distance.

“Want some breakfast?”

“Just coffee. You’re up early.”

When one intended to rebuild an entire life in a day, one could hardly sleep late. “Yes.” He wasn’t encouraging any more conversation. She took a deep breath and then turned her back, searching for a skillet. He was getting scrambled eggs and ham. He loved scrambled eggs and ham. Whether he wanted them or not was irrelevant.

She stole a few surreptitious glances at him. She loved the look of his hair all tousled from sleep, the softness of his mouth framed in a morning beard, the sleepy-lazy blue of his eyes before he really awakened and took on the world. He’d managed to be out of the house a great deal these past few days. Early to rise, late to bed, and around as little as possible. It was up to her to break the silence; she knew that. Only they’d never had an argument like this one before, where they’d actually hurt each other very badly, where something had broken down that they’d both assumed had a lifetime warranty.

Had her heart picked up a murmur during the past five days? It just wouldn’t beat evenly. What if she said the wrong thing now? So she said nothing, but browned the ham, whipped up the eggs, then hurried to the opposite counter to finish chopping. She reminded herself to melt some butter in the microwave to toss in with the bread crumbs. If the dressing didn’t get packed in the turkey, the turkey wouldn’t get cooked, the people wouldn’t get fed and she couldn’t kick them all out to talk to Zach. She could feel his eyes on her back, and her mind reeled through a practice run of what she wanted to tell him. So much, so very much, and it was all lumped in her throat.

The eggs started bubbling. Bolting back to the stove, she stirred like mad, and heard the unwelcome sound of water running upstairs. Her mother was up. This wasn’t the time to try to talk to Zach anyway, yet she couldn’t possibly keep on another minute with that horrible lump in her throat. She flipped off the stove burner, slid his breakfast onto a plate, nervously rubbed her hands on her robe, heard the ping of the microwave timer, poured melted butter into the bread crumbs, told herself to stop all this racing, and set the fork and knife and bowl down in front of him, perching on the edge of the opposite chair at the same time.

“Look, Zach,” she started unhappily.

“Happy Thanksgiving, you two,” Elizabeth chirped brightly from the doorway, and bent to give first her daughter and then her son-in-law a peck on the cheek.

Bett lurched back up, her total frustration masked by an innocuous smile. “Sleep well, Mom?”

“Wonderfully. Better than I have in weeks-at least until I looked out the window and saw the snow. I just hate winter, the thought of driving on icy roads. Now, that’s one beautiful turkey,” she complimented her daughter.

“Yes,” Bett said distractedly.

“You should have woken me. You know I would have-”

“Bett.” Zach’s low voice somehow reverberated within her amid her mother’s bright chatter.

“-helped you with the stuffing. We’ll have to get the turkey in awfully early if we’re going to have it done by three. I thought I’d wear the lavender print, though-”

She heard him. That was just it-how often hadn’t she heard him in the past few months of frantically following her mother’s conversations? Her eyes locked on his face, and she was startled to glimpse the first natural smile she’d seen on his lips in days. She savored a fervent hope of a thaw in the frigid barrier between them for several seconds before she noticed where his hands were motioning.

Elizabeth, unfortunately, had already turned around. “What on earth is Zach doing with the stuffing?”

“Nothing,” Bett said stiffly. She whisked the bowl back to the counter and put his plate of cooling eggs on the table in front of him. Brilliant, Bett, she thought morosely, thoroughly demoralized. Maybe she should offer up a prayer that at least she hadn’t stuffed the turkey with scrambled eggs.

Her spirits rallied when she saw her mother zeroing in on the turkey. “Nothing doing,” Bett said firmly. “Mom, you’ve been cooking for us for weeks. Now, I know that’s been your choice, but it’s my turn. Just sit down, and I’ll make you some breakfast.”

“Brittany, I am hardly going to leave you with all this to do by yourself.”

“Sure you are.” Bett steered a cup of coffee toward her mother’s hand. “Think of it as a vacation day. A ‘feet up’ relaxer.”

“Well…”

Elizabeth was persuaded to sit down, bribed with a slice of peach coffee cake. Bett whirled back to her turkey, her mind rushing through the morning’s organizing of recipes and cooking. The menu included her whole-grain zucchini bread, honey-glazed carrots, the sinfully rich coeur à la crème-roughly translated as “cream of the heart.” She didn’t dare look at Zach. He was undoubtedly going to see this morning as yet another instance of Bett slaving in the kitchen over her mother’s choices. They were hers, and it mattered so very much that he understand that. Chop, chop, chop. Even her cleaver was picking up determination.

Her mother suddenly was hovering over her shoulder, the coffee cake obviously having exhausted its appeal. “I’ve always loved Thanksgiving,” Elizabeth mentioned idly.

“Me, too.”

“I could do that for you.”

“I’d rather do it myself, Mom.” Bett poured the last cup of chopped ingredients into the huge bowl and started stirring.

“You’re going to add raisins, aren’t you? Your father always liked raisins in the stuffing.”

“Actually, no,” Bett said weakly.

There was a moment of silence for this bit of heresy. Bett spared a longing glance for her still-full, now-cold, cup of coffee on the counter. She should have managed at least one full quota of caffeine before anyone was up. Why was hindsight so cheap? And why did this whole scene feel like Custer’s Last Stand?

“I think,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully, “you should add raisins. I always do.” Bett felt her mother shift restlessly behind her. “Actually, Brittany, you should go up and get dressed. I could finish the stuffing for you, and then later you wouldn’t have to be in such a hurry…”

“That’s okay, Mom. There’s plenty of time.”

“You’re not going to add raisins.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “That’s up to you, of course. It never occurred to me that you didn’t like them. You never said anything, all the years you lived at home. And every single Thanksgiving…”

The pause was Bett’s cue to give in. Not that there would be an argument if she didn’t. Just very gentle needling, perhaps a sentimental blur of tears in her mother’s eyes for scorned traditions, and the unconscious message that Bett was doing something wrong. Like a sponge, Bett had always soaked up guilt. Obviously, there was something terribly wrong with her for wanting to make stuffing without raisins.

Raisins?

Bett suddenly felt sick. She’d planned a tactful confrontation with her mom, but, truthfully, over something far more heroic than dried fruit.