Fanciful and Unfounded XI

Journal Assignment #11: Thanksgiving Vignettes

Complete a story made up of interlocking vignettes. Think Paris je t'aime. -Professor Brink

Alexa

Alexa might go home for Thanksgiving.  Then again she might not.  She ponders this while alternatively placing and removing items into and from her suitcase.  The gray case is open on her pink comforter.  A pile of possible clothes lie in a tangle next to it.

            “I know my mom misses me,” She thinks, placing a pair of rolled up jeans in the suitcase and pressing it against one side. Then, “I’m not sure if I am truly ready to engage in a conversation on my love life with my mom’s work friend -- again.”  Out comes a pair of wool socks.  “Maybe I could just spend it with my dad and his dog Jasper,” that would be low-key she convinces herself.  She folds a red sweater and places it next to the already-packed jeans.  But then, it’s never just him.  Last year, he did a pig roast for Thanksgiving and the party of one hundred overwhelmed his house.  Out come the jeans.

            “Maybe I’ll just visit each of them for a little bit,” Alexa thinks, overturning her suitcase and watching the sweater drop to the carpet.

Sylvie

Sylvie knows family is family and even if you don’t understand them, or don’t agree with their political beliefs, you always have to be home with them on Thanksgiving.  The idea of staying at school was inconceivable.  On the train, headed home, Sylvie’s breath was quick and shallow as she thought about making small talk with her tea-party uncle.  She felt her stomach ache as she thought about the hours of reluctant bonding with her sister who is mesmerized by cosmetics and frat parties.  In an attempt to regain a more homeostatic state, Sylvie began to play Solitaire on the tray table.  Moments in, body slumped against the window, eyes closed, breath deep: she slept.

****

The warm foyer is invaded by Sylvie and Alexa.   The call button is pressed by Sylvie’s leather-gloved hand.  

            “Hello,” a deep voice answers.

            “Hi, Jamie!  It’s us,”  Alexa calls.

            “I don’t know who you are. Sorry,”  The voice continues in mock-seriousness.

            “That’s okay,” Alexa says, “ I think I may still have his key.”  As she is searching, the door is buzzed open and Sylvie rushes to pull the bronze handle.  Up two flights of stairs, the door has been left slightly ajar.  

            “I figured I’d let you in if you were just going to break in anyway,” Jamie is saying, coming over to the door.  

            “I’m sure Rutgers would have let us in.”  Alexa says, haughtily pulling off her boots and padding over the fish’s golden enclosure.  Jameson and Sylvie’s critical glance follows her, and then returns to each other.  

“Let me get that,” Jameson says, he is scrambling to take Sylvie’s coat.  

            “Oh!  Thank you!” She says.  She typically does not like men to do things like that for her.  But this feels nice.

            “Come over here!  I want to show you my turkey,”  Jameson takes large quick steps over to the stove’s range, where a turkey is cooling.  Sylvie sees the crisp, dark, caramel skin and sucks in her breath.  She reaches for Jameson’s hand.

            “That looks great,” she says earnestly, looking into his eyes.  Jameson leans toward her and says,

“New Haven, next stop New Haven, any passengers for New Haven collect your belongings and proceed to the doors.”  Sylvie started upright, swept the cards from her tray table, clasped the handle of her suitcase and proceeded to the nearest door.

Jamie

"Honestly all I know about cooking meat comes from my dad’s pig roasts,”  Alexa offered from the brown leather chair where she was reading Jameson’s copy of Dwell magazine.  Jameson crouched by the oven, hand in a dog shaped cooking mit, and settled back onto his haunches.  Then he lept up.  

“Interesting,” Alexa intoned as Jameson tore across the apartment in the apron that was part of his inheritance.  He searched systematically.  He picked up and examined only red-covered books.  Finally, something caught his eye, and he moved toward the makeshift, mahogany table like a cat stalking a bell-filled ball.  Then he pounced, easing a book out from one of the towers that supported the tabletop.  

            He sauntered back to the oven, flicking languidly through the book’s pages.  The cat had his prey, and was now only toying with it.  He sat down cross-legged in front of the oven and opened the book with precision.

            Alexa caught a flash of the book’s cover from her perch.  Memories rushed back to her.  A woman with dark, curly hair wearing a white, pin-tucked apron.  She was singing along to Etta James and swearing indiscriminately in both English and French, “Shit!  Putain!” she uttered as she eased a roasted turkey out of the oven.  Setting the bird on the stove’s range, she unclipped a pen from the neck of her apron, and brought it to her teeth to uncap.  Holding the cap between her teeth, she swiveled to face the cookbook.  “Menteur!” She spat, scribbling  “You said four hours at 325!  Hah!  I say 20 minutes at 500 then 450 for 1 hour and 40 minutes.” She continued to amend the recipe as she saw fit.  “There!” she said sighing happily.  

“À table!” She sang, summoning us to the leaf strewn dinner table for Thanksgiving.  Jameson and Alexa, ages 9 and 7, ran clumsily to the table from our hiding place in the kitchen.  Jameson’s father  sauntered to the table holding a copy of Publisher’s Weekly, which he deposited on the coffee table.  He kissed Emily on the cheek.  

            As Alexa watched Jameson read, she felt a sudden calm.  If anyone knew the definitive-- and least swear-inducing-- way to roast a turkey, it was Emily Grey.

I’m pretty happy with this.  I don’t know if they form a cohesive whole, though.  I really wanted to make it clear that the character of “Jameson” has lost his parents, without being too abrupt about it.

Bon appetit!

Alexa

I don’t remember any such dreams.  This relationship that you’ve invented between Jameson and me is starting to make me feel uncomfortable.

--Sylvie