“Okay, stop. Jeez, you guys. You’ve only been home for half an hour.”
I grab a towel to dry my hands and wish like hell it was time for a glass of wine. It’s three o’clock somewhere, isn’t it?
“So he proposed and you said…”
“No,” Vivs answers quickly. “I said no. Of course I said no.”
“Why would you say no?” Laura asks without an ounce of guile.
“Uh, because I’m not white trash living in the backwoods of Kentucky,” Vivs says.
I look at Laura, who is still confused. I put my arm around her.
“Don’t you think twenty-one is a little young to get married?” I ask her.
She looks at me thoughtfully.
“Not if you’re in love. I would.”
We both wait to see if she’s kidding. She is not. This is definitely something to revisit later.
I turn to Vivs. “So, is your age the only reason you said no? I mean, do you love him?”
Vivs sits down at the kitchen table and takes a deep breath.
“I do. I mean, I think I do. How do you know?”
“Oh, God.” I snort. “Don’t ask me. It took me years to figure it out.”
“Great, Mom. Thanks. Good talk.” Vivs’s voice is dripping sarcasm.
I roll my eyes at her. These are the mom moments that I love and dread all at the same time. I want to say the right thing, give her the right advice, but I’m not a hundred percent sure what that right advice is.
“Well, I think you have to look beyond the dizzy infatuation you have right now and think about who you want to share the best and worst times of your life with. The passion will fade—it has to, or you’d never get anything done.” Vivs smiles at this. “But if you end up with your best friend, then you’ve made the right decision.”
Vivs raises her eyebrows. “So Ron’s your best friend?”
“Well, Nina really is, but Ron’s definitely a close second, or maybe third. The point is, you want someone you can stand being around forty years from now.”
“But how do you know that?” Vivs screams, exasperated.
“You know that when you get to know yourself better!” I raise my voice in frustration.
At this Norman Rockwell moment of holiday joy, Ron and Max walk in the back door to the kitchen.
“Uh, hi?” Ron asks with more than a little trepidation.
“Sissy!” Max jumps ahead of his dad and into Vivs’s lap, giving her a big hug.
“Buddy!” Vivs squeezes him back.
“Hey, what about me, Maxilla?” Laura walks over and scoops up her little brother.
“I got a helicopter and I was a ninja for Halloween,” Max chirps.
“Tell me something I don’t know, brotha!” Laura puts him in a fireman’s hold and takes him into the living room.
“Hi, Ron!” she calls over her shoulder.
“Hey, Laurs,” Ron answers, still standing in the doorway holding a grocery bag. He closes the door and carefully walks to the counter, like he’s casing a minefield. He kisses my head and bends to hug Vivs. “Anything I should know about?”
“Just girl talk.” I give him my sweet smile.
“Ron, how did you know that Mom was the one?” Vivs blurts out.
Okay, girl and boy talk.
Ron looks leery but to his credit decides just to answer the question.
“How did I know? Umm … Well, I didn’t at first.”
I look up, surprised.
“No offense, honey, but you were a lot to take on. No man in his right mind wants to live with a woman who gives him so much shit all the time.”
Shit? I think to myself. He doesn’t know what shit is! I’ll give him … Oh.
Ron continues. “But after a while I realized I was much happier taking shit from all three of you than I ever was with anyone else. So I knew.”
“But he was forty-three at the time,” I needlessly remind everyone in the room. “And he’d already had a full life with crazy Cindy.”
Vivs ignores my babbling and looks directly at Ron.
“What if you had met Mom when you were twenty-one?”
I can tell Ron needs some context at this point, so I chime in.
“Raj asked Vivs to marry him. She said no and now he’s not coming for Thanksgiving. There. You’re all caught up.”
“So, you’re asking would I have married your mom if I’d met her thirty years ago?”
“Yes,” Vivs says.
“Probably not, but I feel like that would have been a huge mistake. I can’t imagine my life with anyone else. Can you imagine your life with anyone else?”
“Frankly, yes I can,” Vivs answers, a little too quickly.
“Well, then,” says Ron, starting to unpack the grocery bag, “you have your answer.”
Vivs goes back to tearing up bread and I thank God for the millionth time that I married the right man.
*
“What time are Nana and Poppy getting here?” Laura asks over breakfast on Thanksgiving morning. Ron has done his usual great job with bacon and eggs. He really doesn’t cook at all, but he manages this one meal without too much mess.
“They’re going to church this morning and then they’ll be over,” I say while chewing toast.
“They go to church a lot,” Max observes.
“Okay, while I have you all here, this is how the day will play out.” I go into drill sergeant mode. “Vivs, you have to make sure the turkey is stuffed and in the oven by noon.”
“Check.” Vivs gives me a salute.
“Ron, the potatoes and turnips have already been made, so all you need to do is put them in the microwave when I tell you to. Repeat, when I tell you to.”
“Jeez, a guy heats things up late one time and gets branded for life,” Ron gripes.
I ignore him and move on. “Laura, you are on gravy-and-special-peas duty. You know the routine.”
“Check,” says Laura. “Make gravy, hide gravy from Nana, let Nana make gravy, then swap out Nana’s gravy for mine. Easy.”
“You say that now, but I think Nana’s on to us. Watch her carefully.”
“What’s wrong with Nana’s gravy?” Max asks. “I love it.”
“You’ve never had it,” Laura assures him. “You’ve only ever had my gravy.”
“Lucky,” Ron says, and gives him a solemn nod.
Let me just say that my mom has a good heart and no taste buds. Everything she makes has way too much seasoning. The problem’s getting worse as she gets older. I feel so sorry for my dad. Thank God, he has terrible sinus issues, so I don’t think he notices too much.
“And don’t forget to dig out the gravy boat from hell,” I remind Laura. “It’s in the linen closet behind the old towels.”
“Jeez, do we have to keep calling it that?” Ron sounds defeated.
“What else would you call it?” I ask him. It was a wedding gift from Ron’s ex. She sent us a gravy boat shaped like a turkey, where the neck is the handle and the gravy comes out the ass. I insist on using it at least twice a year.
He shakes his head. “I was thinking just ‘gravy boat.’ but whatever.”
“Max,” I continue, “you are in charge of collecting leaves for the table. I want to see lots of different colors, okay?”
“Okay!” he says, clearly feeling very important.
“Okay,” I repeat. “I will set the table and make sure the pies get put in the oven once the turkey is out. Any questions?”
I get a lot of blank stares.
“Right, then. Let’s get to it. No TV until your work is done.”
“I don’t want to watch TV,” Max says.