Five Plates and a Folding Chair

The turkey went in at ten. I made the stuffing, peeled the potatoes, and baked my two pumpkin pies, though I knew already there would be more pie than people.

The whole place smelled like sage and butter by noon.

I called Mom in Denver around one, because I always do on holidays. She was at her husband’s family’s place and she could not really talk.

I told her I was hosting. She said, “Well, good for you,” and somebody called her name, and that was that.

At ten to three I heard feet on the stairs and laughing, and I opened the door before anybody could knock.

Kat was in front with a casserole dish wrapped in a towel, still in her gray sweatshirt, already complaining that she was not leaving until she had pie.

Jess had the rolls in a grocery sack and a bottle of sparkling grape juice under her arm. Mo was last, carrying a can of cranberry sauce in both hands like it was something precious.

“I didn’t know what to bring,” she said. “Grandma always did the cranberry. She did it from the can. She said the ridges were the best part.”

“Then it’s perfect,” I said, and I took it from her and slid it into my glass bowl, and she hugged me in the doorway and held on longer than people usually do.

We had not all been in one room in almost two years.

There was a lot of screaming, the good kind, and Kat immediately opened my oven to check the turkey like she was taking its vitals, and Jess put on music from her phone.

I made the gravy while they set the table. Flour in the fat, stir with a fork until it smells like toast, broth a little at a time.

Mo stood beside me and watched the whole thing without saying anything. I did not rush it.

We could not fit everything on the table. The turkey took up half of it by itself.

We set the potatoes on the counter and the rolls on a chair and kept passing things back and forth over each other’s heads.

Kat said grace, kind of. She said, “Thank you for this food and these idiots,” and Jess threw a roll at her, and then Mo said, “And for Bailey,” very quietly, and nobody threw anything after that.

The turkey was a little dry on one end and perfect on the other. The rolls were rolls.

The green bean casserole was better than Kat had warned us. And Mo took one bite of the potatoes with gravy and set her fork down on her plate.

“My grandma made it like this,” she said. “Exactly like this. With the little brown bits in it.” Her chin started to go. “I’m sorry. I’m being stupid.”

“You’re not being stupid,” Jess said, and put her arm around her, and Kat reached across the table and held her hand, and I sat there with my fork in the air and let her cry, because there was nothing on earth that needed fixing just then.

After a minute Mo wiped her eyes on her napkin and laughed and said, “Pass the can-shaped cranberry,” and we did, and the whole table came back to life.