at him. Rolled her fucking eyes! The girl would probably get pregnant, drop out of high school, and mooch off his motherfucking taxes for the rest of her life. Jesus.
Tom dropped his cigarette on the dirty wood floor of Bucknell’s Hardware and ground it out with the heel of his boot.
“That’s a fire hazard, Mr. Jenkins.” The checkout girl was getting cocky.
“Huh. A fire is probably Bucknell’s secret desire. Insurance money and a one-way ticket to Seaside, Florida.” He hacked up a gruff laugh and sighed. Now he had to drive all the way to Evanston, goddammit.
This whole holiday bullshit was going to drive him to drink.
More.
Drink more.
Thanksgiving was always a pain in the ass. He dragged himself to John’s house for the fake “family time” thing because his daughter-in-law insisted. He was sure John would be perfectly happy to get take-out from the grocery store and watch football with a six-pack. Or two.
But no.
Miss Fancy Pants Karen had to host a traditional Thanksgiving meal. With real china, silver, and a dried-out turkey that not even a gallon of gravy could save. She and her mom were two birds-of-a-feather.
But this year fate had tossed a giant wrench into the holiday plans. John and Karen’s house was under renovation, and Karen’s mom had a termite infestation that involved a five-day tent job. They’d asked Tom to host. He figured what the hell, he’d throw a bird on his grill with a beer in its ass and slide a can of cranberry onto a plate. Mrs. Anderson, Karen’s mom, would be horrified. Which made the whole debacle even more appealing. She was so buttoned-up, he wondered how she didn’t choke on her perfect strand of pearls. Four, maybe five hours of entertaining. Not so bad. And the ladies would clean up the colossal mess he was sure to make in the kitchen.
But then a pipe burst at John’s place, and Mrs. Anderson needed somewhere to crash. And John and Karen wouldn’t be arriving until the plumbing was fixed.
Beverly was on her way.
Fuck.
He had no idea what Mrs. Beverly Anderson expected. But he wasn’t a goddamned bed-and-breakfast. Also, he wasn’t feeling particularly welcoming. Mrs. Anderson was a snooty-ass bitch, and her late husband, who’d keeled over from heart disease the year before, had been a slimy snake dressed up in a three-piece suit.
Tom pulled out a rumpled pack of Marlboros from his front shirt pocket and grunted. Empty.
Fuck.
----
Mrs. Anderson
“What do you mean, you don’t have fresh sage? It’s Thanksgiving Week.” Mrs. Beverly Anderson gripped the shopping cart handle so hard her knuckles turned white and started to burn. She forced herself to relax. Fingers splayed out, diamonds glinting in the fluorescent lights of Greene’s Shopping Center. Straighten, bend, straighten, bend . She placed her hands lightly on the handle and tapped one perfectly rounded burgundy nail on the plastic guard.
“Of course you have sage. It’s mandatory for a proper gravy and stuffing.”
The employee had the decency to look sheepish. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But we ran out of sage this morning. We should have more in tomorrow.”
This time Bev gripped the handle so tight, her nails dug into the soft, pink, vulnerable skin of her palms, tattooing them with crescent moons.
“I won’t be here tomorrow. I need it. Now. I need it now.”
The young man shook his head. “Sorry, Ma’am.” He resumed the preposterous task of organizing golden apples in the bin. So they were all lined up, stems out, like a Warhol painting.
Golden apples were a complete waste of time. Not sweet enough for pies or cakes. Not crisp enough for a snack. Not red enough.
Apples should be red.
She took a deep, cleansing breath. In with the good air, out with the bad air. She’d seen this advice somewhere, a long time ago. Perhaps in a woman’s magazine.
But all the air was bad. It smelled like sweaty workers, fish from the seafood section, mildew and mold, desperation.
Tom dropped his cigarette on the dirty wood floor of Bucknell’s Hardware and ground it out with the heel of his boot.
“That’s a fire hazard, Mr. Jenkins.” The checkout girl was getting cocky.
“Huh. A fire is probably Bucknell’s secret desire. Insurance money and a one-way ticket to Seaside, Florida.” He hacked up a gruff laugh and sighed. Now he had to drive all the way to Evanston, goddammit.
This whole holiday bullshit was going to drive him to drink.
More.
Drink more.
Thanksgiving was always a pain in the ass. He dragged himself to John’s house for the fake “family time” thing because his daughter-in-law insisted. He was sure John would be perfectly happy to get take-out from the grocery store and watch football with a six-pack. Or two.
But no.
Miss Fancy Pants Karen had to host a traditional Thanksgiving meal. With real china, silver, and a dried-out turkey that not even a gallon of gravy could save. She and her mom were two birds-of-a-feather.
But this year fate had tossed a giant wrench into the holiday plans. John and Karen’s house was under renovation, and Karen’s mom had a termite infestation that involved a five-day tent job. They’d asked Tom to host. He figured what the hell, he’d throw a bird on his grill with a beer in its ass and slide a can of cranberry onto a plate. Mrs. Anderson, Karen’s mom, would be horrified. Which made the whole debacle even more appealing. She was so buttoned-up, he wondered how she didn’t choke on her perfect strand of pearls. Four, maybe five hours of entertaining. Not so bad. And the ladies would clean up the colossal mess he was sure to make in the kitchen.
But then a pipe burst at John’s place, and Mrs. Anderson needed somewhere to crash. And John and Karen wouldn’t be arriving until the plumbing was fixed.
Beverly was on her way.
Fuck.
He had no idea what Mrs. Beverly Anderson expected. But he wasn’t a goddamned bed-and-breakfast. Also, he wasn’t feeling particularly welcoming. Mrs. Anderson was a snooty-ass bitch, and her late husband, who’d keeled over from heart disease the year before, had been a slimy snake dressed up in a three-piece suit.
Tom pulled out a rumpled pack of Marlboros from his front shirt pocket and grunted. Empty.
Fuck.
----
Mrs. Anderson
“What do you mean, you don’t have fresh sage? It’s Thanksgiving Week.” Mrs. Beverly Anderson gripped the shopping cart handle so hard her knuckles turned white and started to burn. She forced herself to relax. Fingers splayed out, diamonds glinting in the fluorescent lights of Greene’s Shopping Center. Straighten, bend, straighten, bend . She placed her hands lightly on the handle and tapped one perfectly rounded burgundy nail on the plastic guard.
“Of course you have sage. It’s mandatory for a proper gravy and stuffing.”
The employee had the decency to look sheepish. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But we ran out of sage this morning. We should have more in tomorrow.”
This time Bev gripped the handle so tight, her nails dug into the soft, pink, vulnerable skin of her palms, tattooing them with crescent moons.
“I won’t be here tomorrow. I need it. Now. I need it now.”
The young man shook his head. “Sorry, Ma’am.” He resumed the preposterous task of organizing golden apples in the bin. So they were all lined up, stems out, like a Warhol painting.
Golden apples were a complete waste of time. Not sweet enough for pies or cakes. Not crisp enough for a snack. Not red enough.
Apples should be red.
She took a deep, cleansing breath. In with the good air, out with the bad air. She’d seen this advice somewhere, a long time ago. Perhaps in a woman’s magazine.
But all the air was bad. It smelled like sweaty workers, fish from the seafood section, mildew and mold, desperation.
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