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We did. Once. But he doesn’t need to know that. “Of course not,” I scoff as Otter snorts.
“So, you really want to do this?” Anna asks me. “Because if you do, there’s something else you should know. My—”
She’s cut off when the doorbell rings.
“Who the hell is that?” Otter mutters, looking over his shoulder.
Anna and Creed look sick. “Uh,” Anna says. “Surprise! My parents are here too.”
Otter, Creed, and Anna are able to stop me before I flee the house in terror.
ANNA’S parents, Ian and Stephanie Grant, sit across from me at the table, their daughter to their right, and Creed next to her. I can’t help but notice the looks her parents exchange at the seating arrangement. I try to ask Anna silently what she’s told her parents about us, about anything, but she is studiously avoiding my gaze. On my side of the table, Otter is at my left, the Kid to my right, and Mrs. Paquinn on his other side. Jerry Thompson is at the head of the table
to my right, Alice Thompson seated at the head to the left. She hands me a glass of wine, which I immediately chug and hand back to her for a refill. I’ve already had two since coming back to the kitchen, and my face feels a little numb. Alice arches her eyebrow, a trick her son has mastered, as well, and for some reason, I feel the strange need to tell her that I think Otter has a fantastic ass, but I drink more wine instead and finish the second glass. A gentle buzz begins to wash over me, and I know I need to slow down before I’m sloshed. I tend to act stupidly when I’m drunk. She fills me a third glass and waits for me to drink it, but I smile at her instead and she knows I’m done. For the moment.
Alice sits down and smiles at all of us. “Shall we say grace?” she says, not really asking a question, but telling everyone to shut up so we can talk to God. None of us are overly religious, but this is something we’re expected to do at the Thompson dinner table. It’s not like we go to church or anything. We’ll each go around the table and say something that we’re thankful for and blah, blah, blah. It’s how it’s always been here, when Alice and Jerry are around. It’s not like I mind talking to God; we just have a weird relationship, me and him. He seems to think he can jerk me around all he wants (like I’m his personal plaything), just to see me get back up to knock me down again. If God is real, I think he might be some kind of masochist. I imagine he sits there up on his cloud, long white robes flowing, drinking a forty of Mickey’s and smoking a Winston as he flips me the bird and plans what he’ll do next to piss me off.
Wow, that was some really good wine.
We join hands, and I almost want to laugh at them because, ha, ha! Otter and I are holding hands in front of them! I squeeze his hand and give him a grin, and I can see he is highly amused by something, but that’s okay with me. I’m feeling fine. He squeezes my hand back before bowing his head. I look around and see everyone else has their head bowed and their eyes closed, so I figure I should do the same. So I do.
“Hey, God,” Alice says, and this causes me to snort, which I cover up in the guise of a cough that sounds like I have advanced emphysema and am about to hack up something that looks like the tofeatloaf. Alice allows me the honor of finishing before she continues. “We’d like to thank you for the food we’re about to eat”—oh yes, thanks, God, for the foot-meat—“and for the family that surrounds us. I am thankful to have both of my sons home, even if it is just for a short time.” She squeezes Mr. Grant’s hand, so he goes next.
“I’m thankful for the health of my family and friends,” he says.
Dammit, that was going to be mine. Just vague enough not to need further explanation, just sentimental enough to hold up to inspection. Shit, I’ve got to think of something else. You can’t repeat in the thankful prayer dinner circle. It sounds like a cop-out if you do.
Mrs. Grant says, “I’m thankful that my friend Margie was able to beat cancer and is now in remission.”
I don’t know Margie, and good for her, but what can I say? Are you there, God? It’s me, your favorite punching bag. I might be intoxicated.
Already.
Anna says, “I’m thankful for this past summer.” Uh, what? “For allowing the people in my life to be what they needed to be.”
I glare at her. Everyone’s eyes are still closed, so no one notices.
Creed says, “I’m thankful that Bear finally opened his eyes to what was right in front of him.” There’s a pause that’s so pregnant, I swear it’ll give birth to a litter of adamant follow-up questions if it’s not aborted. He finally finishes, “And decided to get custody of the Kid.”
Jerry goes next and says, “I’m thankful that we have the resources to be able to help Bear and the Kid through what is undoubtedly a trying time.”
Me too, Jerry. Me too.
Mrs. Paquinn says, “I’m thankful for Medicare and for God letting me get old enough that that hot nurse gets sent out to me once a week to assist me around the house. I’m also thankful for the tight scrubs he wears. And if my husband is listening in on this, tell him that I love him but that it’s rude to eavesdrop.”
Quiet chuckling.
The Kid says, “I think it’s odd that we are praying to something that has never been proven to actually exist, but to avoid any… issues, I’m thankful for Papa Bear and for Otter and Anna, and Mrs. Paquinn and Jerry and Alice and Creed and Mr. Grant and Mrs. Grant and Dominic and….”
And he goes on in this vein for a while, but I’m stuck on the name
“Dominic.” Who the hell is Dominic? Ty has never mentioned that name before. Does the Kid have an imaginary friend? Oh, Jesus, the therapist is going to have a field day with him.
Crap. It’s my turn. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. Thankful… uh, thankful. I grip Otter’s hand tightly and hope he understands that I need another moment. Just another second to think of something to say, to stop what I know is welling up inside me.
Otter says quietly, “God knows why I am thankful. He knows it every day.”
Ah, of course he goes straight for the heart, the bastard. I’m not going to be able to speak past the lump in my throat, and he knows it. That doesn’t stop him from squeezing my hand. I want to break his fingers, but I resist the urge.
