Thanksgiving in Connecticut

          Becca didn’t know “Catholic” meant her boyfriend’s parents’ house would be covered with religious paintings and full of Jesus and Mary figurines. She stood in the living room, Patrick’s hand on her shoulder, and tried to suppress her initial reaction of disgust. Here she was, in this small house in central Connecticut, entering a world so different from the one in which she’d been raised. None of the Catholic families she’d known back home had decorated their houses as Patrick’s parents had, and her own family only featured paintings by local artists. The sunflower wallpaper that the family had not replaced since at least the 1980’s stood out against the blue and red of the Catholic Virgin Mary and peeled at the corner of the wall and the ceiling. It was like the room was trying to escape its skin, and she sympathized, regretting her decision to visit Connecticut for Thanksgiving.

            She had chosen to attend college eight hours from her home in Maryland, and it was the first time she’d ever experienced New England. There were a lot more Catholics in New Hampshire than in her part of Maryland—everyone she’d met at Keene State College had grown up Catholic. Her first college boyfriend had been Catholic. After they would have sex, he’d grab his rosary and recite several “Hail Mary’s” and “Lord’s Prayers” under his breath while she laid her head on his chest. They weren’t allowed to have sex on Sundays, a strange rule that Becca never understood. In the end, they’d broken up because he couldn’t stand feeling guilty every time he slept with her. Because she didn’t love him, she knew it’d be best to let him go. Besides, his guilt was beginning to make her feel guilty for making him feel guilty, and she wasn’t even religious.

            Then she met Patrick, who described himself as a “lapsed Catholic and atheist.” He didn’t believe in what the church taught, but he attended during the holidays. She’d liked Patrick immediately. They met in line at the Bean & Bagel, a coffee counter in the Student Center at Keene and she’d given him her phone number.

            Mr. Grady, Patrick’s father, lounged on the denim couch with the remote control resting on his chest and his slippered feet hanging over the edge of the armrest. The lamp directed its light on his bald head like a spotlight illuminating a theater’s stage. Becca had the distinct impression that the room was both too bright and too dark—the corners of the room were draped in shadow and the lack of overhead light deepened the outline cast against the walls from the shelving units that surrounded the room.

            Mrs. Grady pushed open the door at the other end of the room, shaking the walls and rattling the shelves. She looked exactly like Patrick, or rather, Patrick had taken after her. Tall and thin with white hair, an apron wrapped around her waist, she stood in the doorway, carrying a wooden spoon, and looked the couple up and down.

            “Becca! You’re stunning,” she said as she walked across the room. Mrs. Grady grabbed Becca’s shoulder with her free hand and brought her close to her in some kind of approximation of a hug. Becca did not break eye contact with Patrick, and after Mrs. Grady broke it off, she wheeled Becca around as though she wanted to dance the Salsa.

            “Yes, Patrick, she’s beautiful. I think you ought to marry her,” said Mrs. Grady.

            Becca felt her muscles tense. She and Patrick had only been dating for eight weeks. Not even two months yet, and Mrs. Grady had the nerve to bring up marriage not even five minutes after meeting her? Becca waited for Patrick’s reaction.

            He nodded. “I would definitely like that,” he said, making quick eye contact with Becca before shifting his gaze back to his mother.

            It was not the answer Becca had been expecting. Something like, “Well, Mom, we haven’t been dating that long,” or “There’s still a lot we have to learn about each other,” would let Becca relax, but Patrick didn’t even dismiss his mother’s desires and seemed to feed into them. She would rather have been strapped to a lie detector and questioned than be pressed into marriage.

            Patrick and his mother had moved on to discuss the more mundane aspects of his life: how was his last year of college going? (“It’s going well.”) Was it challenging him academically? (“The film program isn’t academic per se—but I am learning a lot.”) When would he know more details about graduation? (“Not yet.”) They weren’t paying attention to Becca anymore, a relief, since she wasn’t sure what sort of facial expression she was making.

            “I’ve got to go check on the gravy,” Mrs. Grady said after she’d asked Patrick her most pressing questions.

            Becca didn’t want to come off as rude, but she also did not want to be alone with Mrs. Grady. She took a risk. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Becca asked. Her voice was high-pitched and shaky.

            Mrs. Grady patted her on the head as she walked by. “No, but thank you for offering, dear,” she said.

            Becca wanted to yell I am NOT a dog and storm out the front door. She looked over at Patrick, who wore a smile, and knew she could not bring herself to ruin Patrick’s night. His mother might have been ridiculous, but Patrick certainly was not, and Becca knew she had to pretend she was happy to be there.

            Patrick’s father hadn’t even looked away from the television to acknowledge them. As Becca and Patrick faced each other, finally Mr. Grady picked the remote control off his chest and muted the TV. He turned to the couple, moving his feet from the armrest to the floor. “Hello, son. Becca.”

            “Hey Dad,” Patrick said.

            “Happy Thanksgiving.” He clapped his son on the back and gestured at the TV. “Game starts in an hour or so.”

            Football players caught balls and ducked beneath each other on the screen. The two men began discussing a sport in which she had no interest, so she turned her attention elsewhere.

            What first stood out to her was the family portrait that must have been taken when Patrick was in middle school. Mr. Grady stood behind Patrick’s mother with one hand on each of her shoulders. In the photo, Mr. Grady still had hair and Mrs. Grady’s was light brown. The stool she sat on made her look like the shortest member of the family.

            Patrick stood to her side, in front of his father. Together, they embodied the image of the ideal 1990’s family. Mr. Grady’s suit was large, bulky, and extra-long. Mrs. Grady wore an oversized striped sweater with brown slacks, but Patrick was the one who had embraced the trends of the era. He sported frosted tips, a Michael Jordan basketball jersey, and ill-fitting jeans.

            Sure, Becca’s family had similar photos hidden in old albums, but they weren’t displayed for everyone to see. She didn’t understand why the Gradys kept it hanging year after year.

            “Becca?” Patrick must have asked her a question.

            She looked at him, hoping he’d get the hint and repeat himself. He didn’t. “Yes?” She asked.

            “What’s your favorite movie? Of the ones we’ve watched together?”

            Now she was on the spot, so she said the first thing she could remember. “Well, I really liked the new Batman movie.”

            “Nice!” Mr. Grady’s eyes lit up. “I heard they’ll cast Heath Ledger as the Joker in the sequel.”

            Becca opened her mouth to answer, but Patrick reacted faster. “I don’t think he can pull it off,” Patrick said.

            “But if he does, it’ll be epic.” Mr. Grady said.

            “I don’t know,” Patrick said. “Could anyone be better than Jack Nicholson?”

            The two men began comparing the actors. Becca tuned out once more, letting Patrick and his father control the conversation.

            As she turned her attention to the figurines on the shelves, an image of Patrick as a young boy, playing with an army of glass Jesuses as if they were G.I. Joes flashed through her head. There were enough figurines cluttering the shelves to form a Jesus militia, but Becca doubted they’d ever left their places on the shelves. Her daydream kept going, with Patrick barking orders and commands to his Jesus troops. She felt the smile flash briefly across her face, followed by the quick, stern voice in her head that said, “Stop that! Keep it together!” Her mind often wandered, a symptom of the ADHD she’d been diagnosed with in second grade.

            She didn’t have to keep it together for very long at all. Mrs. Grady rushed through the door, apron removed and high-heels clicking. “Dinner is served,” she said.

            Becca sat across from Patrick and between his parents at the square table. It shouldn’t have surprised her when Mrs. Grady grabbed her son’s hand and said, “Let’s say Grace,” but her leg jerked, a reflex.

            Mrs. Grady reached for Becca’s hand. Becca made eye contact with Patrick, who held his mom’s hand up and reached for his father’s, encouraging her to do the same. She almost shook her head. Patrick had called himself an atheist, and here he was, giving in to his parents’ idea of “Grace.” She wanted to ask him just what the hell he was thinking, not standing up for his values, but she kept her mouth closed. If she spoke up and broke the peace between Patrick and his family, he’d be angry with her, but she was still angry with him. After deliberating longer than necessary, she grasped Mr. and Mrs. Grady’s hands.

            Mrs. Grady closed her eyes and began the prayer. “Father, on this day of all days, we are thankful for you and for the blessings you bring us.”

            Distracted, Becca began to look around the kitchen. Like the living room, it appeared to be falling apart. The cabinets didn’t close all the way, and one clung to its hinges. None of the appliances had been updated and the refrigerator behind them hummed just loudly enough to annoy her.

             “We’re thankful for the opportunity to gather together with family and get to know a new family member,” Mrs. Grady said. 

            She was relieved the Jesus theme had not spilled over into their eating space, but it had been replaced by an equally tacky cow display. The salt and pepper shakers resting on the table were little black and white cows. A cow topped the paper towel holder next to the sink. The towels hanging from the ancient oven’s door, yep, embroidered with cows.

            She thought a cow theme could work in a kitchen; humans eat beef. But she wasn’t sure whether or not she’d want to look at the animal she was eating as she cut it up on her plate. Maybe the Gradys didn’t actually eat much beef? She made a mental note to ask Patrick after dinner was over.

            “Bless this food we are about to eat,” Mrs. Grady said, “and grant us peace. Amen.” She opened her eyes and unfolded her hands.

            Becca assumed it was time to eat and grabbed the bowl of stuffing sitting in front of her. Mrs. Grady held up a finger, so she retracted her arms.

            “How about we go around and say what we’re thankful for,” she said. “You start dear.” Mrs. Grady nodded at her son.

            After a short pause, Patrick began. He spoke nervously at first. “I, well, most of all I’m really thankful to have Becca and that she’s with us now.” He smiled at her.

            She appreciated his sentiment, but now everyone in the family stared at her. She fidgeted, shifting her positions, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

            “I’m also thankful to have such a great family and glad we can be together,” Patrick said.

            Mrs. Grady smiled in approval. She turned to her husband. “And what are you thankful for, hon?”

            He looked back at his wife. “I’m thankful for my family, the food, and the fellowship,” he said. He picked up his fork. 

            Then Mrs. Grady batted her eyes at Becca, expecting her to say something next. “Um, well, I am also grateful for the chance to meet you guys, so thanks for inviting me,” she said. “And I’m looking forward to eating this delicious food.”

            Mrs. Grady dramatically put a hand to her heart. “Oh, you are such a sweetheart. Patrick,” she turned to her son, “You should give this one a ring as soon as you can. Actually, I have your Grandmother’s upstairs if you’d like to use it.”

            It was a good thing they hadn’t started eating yet, otherwise Becca might have choked. An image of her face turning blue and falling to the floor flashed through her mind. Patrick was glaring at his plate.

            The room would have been totally silent, but the refrigerator whirred in the background. She stared at the stuffing.

            “Anyway,” Mrs. Grady said. “I’m thankful for all of you wonderful people and especially thankful that we’re all happy and healthy.”

            Everyone had said a different version of the same thing. Becca was going to reach for the stuffing again, but almost immediately thought better. What if Mrs. Grady had more to say? She didn’t want to look stupid.

            Patrick had the same thought. He grabbed for the mashed potatoes but paused to look at his mother.

            “Well, go on, let’s eat,” Mrs. Grady said.

            The Thanksgiving Dinner was a traditional spread of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, green beans, and brussels sprouts. Family members picked up whichever bowl was closest, plopped the food item onto their plates, and passed it.

            Mr. Grady handed Becca the mashed potatoes, and as she tried to spoon them out, they sounded like a suction cup being removed from a wall. Becca tried not to look grossed out, but she made a mental note to smother the things in gravy when the boat came her way. She passed the bowl to Mrs. Grady as Mr. Grady presented her with the brussels sprouts. She took three and passed them on. The family continued this ritual until everyone had amassed a nice collection of food. The hum of the refrigerator and the scraping of silverware echoed throughout the kitchen.

            “Great dinner, Mom,” Patrick said, his voice nearly an octave higher than it had been before.

            “Yes, Mrs. Grady, this is the best Thanksgiving dinner I’ve ever eaten,” Becca said. She hoped the lie would make Mrs. Grady happy.

            Mr. Grady nodded. “Becca’s right. This is an excellent meal.”

            Mrs. Grady beamed. “Thank you, dears.” She glanced back down at her plate and pierced a brussels sprout with her fork.

            Becca copied her move and placed the bitter vegetable into her mouth. Her own mother always seasoned them with salt, garlic, and lemon juice and grilled them. Mrs. Grady’s brussels sprouts, in comparison, were soggy little cabbages.

            “Tell us about your family dear. What do you usually do for Thanksgiving?” Mrs. Grady said.

            Becca swallowed. “Well, my brother and I always get to break the wishbone before dinner at my Grandma’s. Then afterwards, we all play Rummy.”

            “Does your family talk about the things you’re all thankful for?”

            Instead of saying, “Well, duh,” Becca instead nodded and smiled. “Yes, we all go around the table.”

            Mrs. Grady pursed her lips. “We’re certainly grateful that you chose to celebrate with us this year.”

            That must have been the third or fourth time that Mrs. Grady had said that exact same thing. Becca wasn’t sure she believed her anymore. Suddenly she missed the warmth of her grandma’s Thanksgiving kitchen. “I miss them all the time, but I’m glad they give me independence,” she said.

            “Independence.” Mrs. Grady sniffled and turned up her nose. “Is that what they want to call it these days? If my Patrick went so far away, I’d call it a rebellion.”

            Patrick looked up, like he was going to say something, but then he quickly changed his mind. He made sure his mother was looking away from him as he held up his pointer finger and twirled it around his temple. “Crazy,” he mouthed.

            Becca raised an eyebrow. “Oh, well I’m sorry to hear about that. I guess my parents are just more open-minded.” Oh no. Why had she just said that? Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the refrigerator’s moan. Her fingertips went white and she had a distinct sensation that her mind had just separated from the rest of her body.

            Now Mrs. Grady scowled at her. Patrick’s mouth gaped, and Mr. Grady kept chewing.

            “Besides, my parents trust me,” Becca said. What was she doing with her mouth? Was it still going? “They like letting me explore the world.” Becca could not force herself to stop talking. She sent Patrick a look that she hoped said “Help me,” but at this point her body was just moving on its own.

            “Becca!” Patrick said.

            The sound was enough to jolt her mind and body back together. She wondered if people without ADHD felt that same kind of sensation, but she could never know for sure. She cleared her throat.

            “I’m sorry,” she said. “Excuse me.” She placed her napkin on her chair and rushed off to the bathroom.

            After she calmed herself, she felt normal enough to return to the table. “I’m sorry Mrs. Grady,” she said as she sat down.

            Mrs. Grady faked a smile. “Oh, it’s quite all right dear. I just thought you’d be different, that’s all.”

            Becca tried to stop herself from saying “Different from what,” but she couldn’t and before she knew it the words had joined them at the dinner table.

            “I just want Patrick to bring home a nice Catholic girl for a change. I don’t know where I went wrong,” she said.

            In Mrs. Grady’s eyes, Becca was the opposite of a nice girl. And maybe she did have a point—her mouth was absolutely out of control. Then again, it seemed impossible for any girl to meet Mrs. Grady’s sharp standards.

            “Mom, will you stop?” Patrick said. He shot her a glare. Finally, Patrick was standing up for her. She’d wondered how long it might take.

            “I’ll stop when you realize what all these terrible women are doing to you, my sweet son,” Mrs. Grady said.

            Patrick flicked his eyes to meet Becca’s widening ones. She could see the panic and fear in the creases at his forehead and in the corners of his mouth, and she realized he knew that if he didn’t respond, Becca would.

            Becca gave him several long seconds to consider his next course of action. She wondered if he knew the consequences of taking his mother’s side. There’d be no way she’d keep dating someone who clearly didn’t have her back. He looked away from both women, back down at his plate.

            “I’m definitely not as terrible as you think I am,” she said.

            Mrs. Grady rolled her eyes. “This one is particularly disrespectful,” she said, glaring at her son.

            “This one?” Becca said. Her voice had gotten louder, higher and breathier.

            “Becca—”

            She cut him off. “No. I’m sorry your Mom doesn’t like me, but I will not let her treat me like shit because I’m not the kind of girl she has in mind.” Her hair fell into her face, which, at this point, was bright red.

            “You see, Patrick? She’s very quick-tempered.” Mrs. Grady wiped her mouth and placed the napkin back on her lap.

            “Will you guys please stop fighting?” Patrick looked from his mother to Becca.

            “If this is what you think fighting is, I’d hate to see what happens if you got in an actual fight,” Becca said.

            “Just stop.” Patrick said. “Stop talking.”

            “You stop telling your Mom you’re something different than who you are.” She turned to Mrs. Grady. “On our first date, he told me he was an atheist.”

            Mrs. Grady scoffed. “I’m afraid he lied to you, dear.”

            Becca twisted her body to glower at Patrick. “Is that true? Who are you really lying to, Patrick?”

            He shook his head. “Can we just eat?”

            Becca clamped her mouth shut and shook her head. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “Where do you—”

            “Enough!” Mr. Grady’s voice hit her like a thumping bass drum. “Becca, please don’t speak to Mrs. Grady like that. And Miranda—” He locked his eyes with his wife. “Stop baiting her. She’s fine.”

            Mrs. Grady nodded. “Yes dear,” she said.

            “Let’s just eat dessert and go watch football,” he said, glancing at his empty plate. Everyone else still had food left. Mrs. Grady faked a smile, removed the napkin from her lap, and stomped to the corner of the kitchen to retrieve the pumpkin pie and cow-covered dessert plates.

            Patrick collected everyone’s dinner plates and took them to the sink. As the refrigerator sung, Mrs. Grady sliced the pie and placed pieces onto plates. Before distributing each plate, she scooped a spoonful of whipped cream onto each slice. Members of the Grady family dug into their dessert as Becca sat staring at her pie.

            “Becca, you didn’t say ‘thank you,’” Patrick said.

            She raised an eyebrow. “Are you kidding? I can’t keep quiet and say thank you at the same time,” she said.

            Mr. Grady cleared his throat. Becca threw down her fork and crossed her arms over her chest. Patrick turned bright red.

            “Can I speak with you in the den?” He said as he stood.

            “I don’t know, can you?”

            He narrowed his eyes. “May I?”

            A drop of his spit land on her forehead. She pushed out her chair and exited the kitchen.

            Patrick stood under one of the Jesus portraits with his arms crossed over his chest. “What the fuck is your problem?”

            “You.” The portrait behind them made it seem like Jesus was happy they were fighting.

            “Because?”

            “You’re not who I thought you were.”

            Patrick shook his head. “Who did you think I was?”

            “On our first date, you said that you’d never let anyone else tell you how to act. Was that just a lie?”

            “Would you rather have my parents disown me?”

            “I thought you’d at least stand up for me.”

            “Stand up for you? When you’re being totally disrespectful?”

            “You knew she wasn’t going to like me.”

            He shook his head. “She doesn’t like anyone. I thought you knew to keep your mouth closed.”

            “You said you understood ADHD.”

            He took a step away from her. “Well, it looks like I don’t.”

            Becca felt her eyes narrow. She knew she was about to do something stupid, but just like before, her body was moving faster than her brain. She grabbed one of the Jesus figurines off the shelf. It coated her fingers with dust. “Why don’t you ask Jesus what to do?” She waved it in his face.

            “Hey. Calm down, Becca,” he said. “You’re freaking me out.”

            Becca cocked her head to the side and raised both eyebrows. “This is stupid. I’m not going to date someone who doesn’t understand me.”

            Patrick reached for her, but she backed away. “I may not understand you, but I know I love you.”

            She almost tripped over her own feet. “We haven’t even been dating two months and you love me?” She wrinkled her nose. “Nope. I can’t do this. I’m not doing this. We’re breaking up now.” She tried to turn back and walk away from him, but she found she was backed into a corner and couldn’t maneuver anywhere else.

            He moved closer. “Let me understand you. All this bullshit doesn’t matter. Just me and you.” He was almost whispering as he ran his hand through her hair.

            She grabbed his hand. “No way. I’m done.” She ducked under his arm and tried to shimmy out of the corner.

            “But Becca—” He grabbed after her, too slow to catch her.

            She didn’t know what else to do, how else to tell him their relationship was over. She stared at the Jesus in her hand. His pale skin and light hair bothered her; real-life Jesus would have been Middle Eastern, not white. Both glass hands lay on his chest, framing a red heart and a black chain. He was covered with dust. In the split second it took her to look over the figurine, she knew what she’d have to do to break up with Patrick.

            She twirled around on one foot. Then, like a pitcher on the mound, she wound up and threw Jesus against the nearest wall. He shattered. Glass fell to the floor and bounced back toward them. The sound echoed throughout the house.

            “Oh God,” he said.

            Before she could think about anything else, she backed away and rushed out the front door. Greeted by the cold New England night, Becca felt her feet land against the concrete, moving away from the house with each stride. She didn’t know where she was going, but anywhere was better than here. 

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