Reunion

          Chased out of the hot kitchen because I sampled more than I stirred and banished to the front porch to act as the spotter / greeter, I had time to sit and think. Before I'd been shooed away and swatted with a dish towel I'd heard the scuttlebutt about two long-absent relatives, Bessie and Clyde. They'd not been together at the same family gathering for twenty years. Now for some reason they were both expected to be present at this Thanksgiving celebration, two strangers to me, two senior citizens, two feuding kinfolk.
          Would there be fireworks? I anticipated an argument with shouting and name calling. Perhaps plates would be flung through the air and shatter on the floor. I could see a frantic, furious food fight, mashed potato missiles splattering on contact, gelatinous jiggly cranberry sauce-slime sliding down the walls forming red pools, green b-b shot peas pinging and plopping.
          A car door slams and I hear a shout.
          "Ahoy young lady. Can you give me a hand?"
          As I scramble to the unfamiliar figure of a white-bearded man struggling to exit a boat of a black sedan, he bellows, "I'm Clyde. Did they warn you I was coming?"
          I can't help myself. I grin. He loops his arm around one of mine and hands me a still warm pie. I steal a quick sniff.
          "It's my world famous sweet potato pie. Wait 'til you taste it. You'll be begging for the recipe."
          Recipe, that word tugged at me. Aha, right, that had been the contention, the strife between Bessie and Clyde.
          I settled Clyde and his pie in the kitchen happy to join in the flowing conversation.
          Returning to the porch I discover a round woman, a grey woman, panting and perched on a step. Clutched in her lap is a casserole dish.
          "Hi. You must be Bessie. We're expecting you. Can I carry that for you?"
          The decisive shake of her head surprises me. She does however proffer a hand and I pull her to her unsteady feet. Together we totter to the hub of activity.
         I gaze around and hold my breath. Clyde half rises from a chair knocking over a steaming mug of coffee. The sudden silence gives way to sidelong glances. I stand still and clench my jaw.
         Bessie deposits her ceramic dish on the counter next to Clyde's pie with a clatter. Next she shrugs out of her coat and Clyde catches it before it hits the floor.
          "What are y'all gawping at? Isn't anyone going to greet me?"
          Several throats coughed and ahemed. Clyde spoke first.
          "Hello Bessie, long time no see."
          All eyes stared, no one dared blink, as Bessie turned to the man she hadn't spoken to in twenty years. Clyde flinched.
          Bessie's brow furrowed. She opened and closed her mouth a few times. One foot tapped on the tile floor. The knitted scarf she'd been fiddling with slipped from her hands and crumpled at her feet. I bent to retrieve it.
          "Do I know you? Have we met? Are you here for Thanksgiving, too? I brought ham hocks and greens. Is that okay?"           522 words His Story # 35