Well, said Charlie’s mother.
School for the Deaf, Charlie said finally.
Her grandmother froze, her wine halfway between the table and her lips, then reversed course and set the glass back down.
Really? she said.
Charlie nodded. Her mother nodded. Wyatt, who at some point had swapped his own silverware with the serving spoon Charlie had laid out, was shoveling large scoops of stuffing into his mouth without looking up. Her grandmother stood.
Well, Charlotte, I think that’s wonderful! How do you say “wonderful” in your language?
Charlie blinked hard to clear away the shock.
Wonderful, she said.
Her grandmother copied her motion, then pulled Charlie into a sideways hug. Charlie raised her eyebrows at her parents over her grandmother’s shoulder.
It’s about time, her grandmother said. Why are you all looking at me like a hair in your biscuit?
I’m not, said her mother. I’m just surprised by your reaction.
Well come now, Lynnette. It’s not as if she was fooling anyone.
Mother!
That’s more like it, said Charlie’s dad.
And how do you feel, Charlotte? At the new school?
It’s great, she said through a mouthful of green beans. I’m learning a lot.
Don’t talk with your mouth full, Charlotte, goodness, she said, smiling and thwacking another serving of mashed potatoes onto her daughter’s best china.
* * *
—
They’d plowed through dessert by six and were standing on the front step wishing her grandmother farewell within the hour.
Can I go with you? Charlie asked her father as he pulled his shoes back on.
Thanksgiving’s your mom’s, he said.
What? said her mother, lurching back into the foyer.
Nothing, said Charlie.
Good night, her father said.
He kissed her on the cheek and Charlie closed the door behind him, trying not to let her face betray her disappointment as she turned back in to the house. But her mother was apparently too intoxicated to keep up appearances, and gave Charlie a sour look. She was listing, as if one leg was longer than the other.
You, she said.
What?
Why would you do that?
I didn’t mean to. It just came out.
Her mother scoffed.
You really do live to embarrass me, don’t you?
Charlie was so used to fighting with her mother it was almost second nature. But something about the earnest drunken nature of the question gave it a unique sting.
No, she said softly.
She watched her mother lurch back into the kitchen and snag her toe on the island barstool, shout something she couldn’t see, but assumed was a swear. Her mother never cursed, and she was almost sorry to have missed it.
Whatever her mother had said was bad enough to rouse Wyatt from the couch; he poured a glass of water and took her hand.
Let’s get you upstairs, he said.
Her mother didn’t argue, but managed to glare at Charlie dramatically as Wyatt led her back through the foyer to the front staircase. Charlie stood in her wake, just staring at the front door for a while, wondering what to do.
for February, intuition was a kind of intelligence, and her instincts were perhaps all she considered exceptional about herself. She’d been prone to anxious dreams since childhood, inscrutable images laid out before her in a code she hadn’t yet cracked. One night when she was seven, she dreamt the family dog was abducted by aliens, and woke to find him dead on the kitchen floor, tongue lolling from his open mouth. She’d thought that when she got older, her dreams would become proper premonitions, narratives from which she could extract useful information. When her father died, though, she’d felt nothing ahead of time, leaving her bewildered. Why hadn’t her subconscious warned her? She took comfort in the fact that the doctors had said her father hadn’t felt much of anything, either—the coronary was so massive, death would have been instantaneous—but still the events threw the instincts February was so proud of into doubt.
This time there was no excuse. She woke at dawn Thanksgiving morning, though that wasn’t special—she’d long ago lost the capacity to sleep in. Mel, who was functionally useless without a full eight hours, rolled herself into the warm space February left in their bed.
February showered, dressed, pinned up her hair, emailed Swall to demand he meet with her and Assistant Headmaster Phil next week, to bring him up to speed. She needed help to draw up plans for the students’ future programming. When a vacation autoreply bounced back, she forced herself to close her laptop. Today she would finally follow through on the oft-made promise (to herself, to Mel) of a work-free twenty-four hours.
In the kitchen, she hefted the turkey from its perch in the refrigerator and onto the counter. The smell of raw meat usually flipped her stomach, but Mel had given the bird a dry rub that was salty and aromatic, the garlic and thyme masking the metallic tang of blood. She wrested the bag of giblets free and emptied it into a frying pan to sear before starting the gravy—no escaping the smell there, and February had to childishly pull her T-shirt up over her nose to keep from gagging.
Neither she nor Mel was much for stuffing, but their parents—Mel’s father and February’s mother—had both taken a liking to it in recent years. Softer on the dentures. She spooned some dressing Mel had made the day before into the bird’s vacant inner cavity. Was she supposed to tie it up now—trussing, was it? She tried to remember what she’d seen Mel do in years past, but they had no string in the junk drawer and anyway the bird was nearly too big for the pan as it was; she doubted anything would be able to shift around. She stretched strips of bacon in a crosshatch across the turkey’s back and preheated the oven.
Now for the good stuff. February wondered how the whole turkey tradition had stuck. She’d never met anyone who actually liked to eat it, except maybe in a sub. But the sides, those she could get behind. Sweet potato pie, cornbread, mac and cheese. She jiggled the pan of giblets, browning now, to keep them from sticking.
Mel appeared in the doorway, bangs askew, and surveyed February’s work with a look she’d come to know as gratitude, though Mel rarely said such things aloud, and pretty much never spoke at all in the first fifteen minutes of being awake. She’d like sign language, February often thought.
Morning, hon.
Mel nodded and pulled two mugs down from the cabinet, fixed their coffee. She handed one to February, who placed it absently on the counter.
Thanks, she said, and returned to the stove.
What’s wrong? said Mel.
Nothing. Why?
Mel gestured to the mug.
No coffee?
I just want to get this going.
You’d mainline coffee if they’d let you.
I was thinking I could use a detox.
And you think Thanksgiving is the day to start a dietary cleanse?
It did sound ridiculous once she heard it aloud.
I suppose not, she said.
She retrieved her mug and took a sip. It always tasted better when Mel made it.
That’s my girl, Mel said.
She clinked cups with February and kissed her on the corner of her mouth, then disappeared into the next room. February heard the television hum on, then the sounds of the parade in New York.
You’re not gonna help me in here?
Feb, it’s eight thirty. Damn, that float is creepy. Come see this!
I wanna be done before I leave to get Mom. Do you think we need another vegetable? Salad?
Did you not hear what I said about the cleansing? Nobody’s coming to Thanksgiving dinner for the salad.
What time did you tell your dad?
Three.
Should we invite the people across the street?
Oh look, Snoopy!
Mel!
I’m sure the neighbors have plans.
We have, like, twenty pounds of turkey.
Tell you what, said Mel. If you can tell me their name, then yes, we should invite them.
The, uh— Not fair, you know I’m terrible with names— Or anything about them at all—
They’ve got a red minivan.
Are you looking out the window right now?
He works for Amazon. Down in Hebron.
I suppose that counts.