Thanksgiving Return

         “Jane, please come to Home Furnishings. Jane to Home Furnishings.”
         As the loud speaker bade me to what was undoubtedly a rueful scenario, I rolled my eyes. A difficult customer. I made my way to the department readying myself to apologize profusely for something over which I had no control. Betsey, a junior sales associate, looked relieved to see me coming. Next to her, an overweight, middle-aged woman was holding a blender.
         “You the manager?” the woman asked.
         “Yes ma’am,” I responded.
         “Well none of your staff can tell me anything about this damn blender,” she snapped.
         “What would you like to know?” I inquired.
         “How many speeds does it have?” Her eyes widened as she spoke as if she were stating something excessively obvious.
I took the box from her hand.
         “I can read the box,” she sighed.
         I scanned the detailed and clearly labeled box and said: “Eight. It has 8 speeds.”
         She snatched the box from my hand with a snort. “Thanks for all your help,” she said disingenuously as she turned to leave us.
         “Sorry,” Betsey said after the woman left. “I never got to read the box.”
         “It’s okay,” I replied, “People are jerks.”
         “I heard you got the holiday off,” said Betsey. “How’d you manage that?”
         “I worked the last three,” I told her.
         “Going home?”
         “Yep.”
         “Where is that?”
         “Saint Thomas. About three hours from here.”
         “Oh,” Betsey said, “Have fun.”
         “You too,” I said, “Happy Thanksgiving.” I took a deep breath and headed to the back to clock out.
         “Home,” I stated aloud. It was a place I rarely went and one I found as intimidating as I did comforting. With the swipe of a time card, I was on my way back.
         It was nearly eleven o’clock at night when I pulled up to the farm. For a moment, I felt a sense of warmth overtake the dread. My family home was, truly, idyllic. A large two-story farm house on 40 rolling acres which held my childhood bedroom still entirely the way I had left it seventeen years before. I parked in front of the garage and noted that the light was on in the apartment above it. Gabe was up. Hopefully, he would come to greet me. It was always nice to have a buffer between my excruciatingly well-meaning parents and myself. I got out of the little Ford pick-up I drove, yanked my duffle bag from its bed and went in through the side door. The light was still on in the kitchen and hall.
         “Hello?” I called quietly.
         “Jane!” I heard my mother shout from the living room. When I walked in, she put aside her sewing and rose to greet me with open arms.
         “I’m so glad you made it. I couldn’t stay up much longer. Dad said he’s sorry he didn’t make it, but he’ll make blueberry pancakes in the morning for you.”
         “I haven’t had blueberry pancakes in…” I thought back and realized it was several Christmases ago. The last time I was home.
         “Is it any better?” she asked me once we had sat down.
                             “Not really,” I answered.
         “Well, you can always go back to art school. Or any school.”
         “It’s too late, Mom,” I objected.
         “You’re not that old, kid,” she replied. She looked at me for a moment and added: “If you’re going to stay where you are, make the best of it. No one should be miserable if they don’t have to be. And you don’t.”
         I started to disagree with her, but I wasn’t sure she was wrong. Instead, I suggested that we go to bed.
After a night of sleep that resulted in a cycle of short slumbers interrupted every hour or so with unwanted waking, I finally got out of bed at nine. Dad had, indeed, made blueberry pancakes.
“Morning, kiddo,” said my father. “Coffee’s fresh.”
“Morning, Dad,” I said giving him a hug.
“Don’t mind me,” came a voice from behind me.
“Gabe,” I said, “How’s my little brother?”
“Engaged.”
“So I heard. Congratulations.” I hated Gabe’s fiancé, Adrienne, and I strongly suspected Gabe knew it. I had once voiced opposition to their union as I find her selfish and conniving. Later, though, once it became clear that she would be sticking around, I made nice.
“Abbott’s is open today. Why don’t you and Mom go get a Christmas tree?” Dad asked me.
I hated the idea of running into old friends, explaining that I was, in fact not an artist, but instead a member of the daily drudgery of retail; wasting away hour after low-paying hour.
“Isn’t Mom cooking?”
“Just the turkey and dressing,” Mom responded as she came in. “Turkey’s got three more hours to roast and the dressing just needs to go in the oven an hour before we serve. It’s already put together in the fridge. Adelaide is doing the potatoes and corn and Fletcher and Caroline are bringing rolls and dessert.”
They really planned this well, I thought.
“Isn’t it rude to shop on a holiday?”
“It’s tradition. Well, when you’re here. Besides John and Viola have always welcomed people on Thanksgiving to get their trees. Their kids mostly do it now anyway and they close down from 12 to two while they do dinner,” Dad explained.
Really well. I had nothing left but honesty.
“Mom, said reluctantly, “I don’t want to see anyone.”
She gave me her signature look of stern disapproval before shutting me down.
“You don’t owe anyone an explanation about your life. Go get ready.”
I felt 16 again. I had just been ordered to do something by my mother and for some reason I hadn’t refused. I went to my room and tried to get a decent look together.
We pulled up to Abbott’s Tree Farm shortly after 10 a.m. There were a few other cars in the lot, indicating that there were other families roaming the grounds. We started down the first row and I immediately found one I felt was good enough.
“This one’s nice,” I said to Mom, pointing at a full, six-foot spruce.
“I think I want something bigger,” she said. “And let’s get a Douglas Fir.”
After several minutes and a nearly full trip around the trees, I spotted a familiar face. I tried to duck away to the side, but I wasn’t quick enough.
“Jane?” asked a deep, silky voice I knew too well. “Jane Dalton?”
I turned around and tried to produce a genuine-looking smile; one that did not indicate that I had ruined my entire life.
“Hi Keith,” I said. “Are you well?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said.
I turned to Mom, “We better get back.”
“Nonsense,” said my mother. “Talk to your friend. No hurry.”
I felt enveloped by dread and could feel the sting of humiliation looming before me. I turned back to Keith and smiled.
“Are you home for the holidays?” he asked.
“Yep,” I said. “You?”
“Oh no, I’m living here now. Spent a few years travelling, then I worked at a company in Baltimore for a while. Two years ago I came back and joined the family firm.”
“So you went into accounting, then?” He nodded. “Do you like it?”
“Sure. I guess I always knew that’s what I’d do. I just wanted to spend some time getting to know the world first. Where are you now? What kind of art are you doing?”
My breath rose and fell. This was is. I could avoid it no longer.
“I’m not….. I didn’t go into art.”
“You’re kidding. All those paintings and sculptures you did in high school – they were so good. Didn’t you get into art school? I’m sure you were there when I started at state.”
“I went to art school,” I was choosing my words carefully, “I didn’t end up finishing though.”
“Oh.” He sounded surprised. “What are you doing? Where are you?”
“No place special,” I announced. Maybe he wouldn’t feel compelled to point that out if I did. I hoped it would end there but he continued to look at me silently and I knew he was waiting for more of a response. I felt tremendously sick. “I’m a manager at a Value Mart a few hours from here,” I confessed.
“Well,” he paused briefly. “That’s cool. You were really good at art, though. Do you still paint or sculpt?”
“Not in years,” I said. I felt so inferior - an accountant who had traveled the world. I had never even been to New York. I felt I had had enough.
“It was nice seeing you, Keith,” I said. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Dalton,” he replied.
Back home, Gabe took the tree from the back of the truck and went about prepping it to bring inside for trimming. By 12:30, the rest of the family started to arrive. First, my younger sister Adelaide arrived with her husband, Alex, and children Poppy, my 6 year-old niece, and Max, my four-year-old nephew. Soon after, my elder brother Fletcher showed up with his wife Caroline and their daughter, Molly who was 9. By one, the food was on the table and my father was reciting a blessing.
I was sitting next to my sister.
“So how’s it been? Being home after so long,” she asked.
“It was fine up until I was bullied into going tree shopping and I ran into Keith,” I whispered.
“Oh no!” she whispered back. “How did that go?”
“I almost threw up,” I said.
“Did he ever know you were hung up on him?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But he was all ‘what kind of art are you doing?’ And I was all ‘I flunked out of art school and work at Value Mart.’ It was great.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“How’s life with Adrienne around?” I asked, knowing the distaste for her she also felt.
“She still sucks, he still doesn’t know it, but she’s nice to our faces,” my sister summarized.
“How long has Gabe been going over there for holidays?”
“Since the first year,” she explained. “She makes the rules.”
         After dinner, we gathered in the living room to decorate for Christmas. Mom and Dad helped the kids decorate the tree and I went to help Fletcher get the holiday village out of the garage.
         “How are ya, kid?” he asked, taking a box from the top shelf against the wall on the garage.
         “Great,” I said sarcastically.
         “Come on, it can’t be that bad.”
         “Really? I work a dead-end job and haven’t had a date in a year.”
         “Well, I work a job I hate and my marriage has about as much life left in it as that tree in there.”
         “What?”
         “I want to quit. I hate being an attorney,” he confessed. “All I represent are people looking to screw the system and good people. Last week I sued a veteran trucker for hitting a car that in all likelihood cut him off. It was my client’s fault, I’m sure, but the jury didn’t see it that way. Now the poor trucker won’t be retiring any time soon.”
         “That sucks. I always thought you liked being an attorney. It was your dream.”
         “Some dream.”
         “And Caroline was your high school sweetheart.”
         “Yeah and now we barely speak. Look, kid, you think you made all the wrong decisions, but in reality none of us have fared that well. Besides, you’re freer than you think.”
         “How do you figure?” I asked.
         “You can leave. You can quit your job tomorrow and follow a new path.”
         “I can’t even afford to take a vacation.”
         “So move back home and get a job here. You can take the apartment; Gabe is almost packed up. Then you can figure things out, no pressure. That’s what I’d do. I’d love to be in your position.”
         For the first time in years, I began to wonder if I really was lucky. I contemplated his words as I helped my relatives deck the halls of my family home and all the next day on my ride home. On Saturday, I was back to my old routine, putting out stock and helping customers find the perfect dish drainer to fit their lifestyle. Around one, as my lunch hour drifted further away, a young man approached me for help.
         He was young, probably a college student with red hair, a red beard and blue eyes. He wore a black tee shirt and tight jeans.
         “Excuse me,” he began, “can you tell me where musical instruments are?”
         “Sure,” I responded. “Follow me.” As I navigated rows of goods bathed in fluorescent light, I asked him about his musical needs. “So what are you looking for?”
         “I need new drumsticks, I’m going for an audition in Atlanta next week.”
         “How interesting. What kind of music do you play?”
         “Rock. I’m going to be a professional. If I don’t choke next week, I’ll be on my way.”
         “Good luck,” I said. “I hope you make it.”
         “I will. I’ve been practicing since I was a kid. I write my own music. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. I have a lot of local fans.”
         “You seem very condfident,” I said.
         “I am. You have to be to get any where,” the young man said.
         “That’s true, I guess. Well, here you are, drumsticks. Hope you find what you’re looking for.”
         “Thanks, remember me. You’ll be seeing me again.”
         “Yeah,” I said, “maybe I will.” I walked away and left him to make his choice. I started back to home furnishings and paused. I thought for a second about the passion and talent overflowing from the young man I had just left. I looked around at where I was and what I had to return to. After a moment, I headed to the back of the store and into the general manager’s office.
         “Gary,” I said. “I quit.”